Velaris shimmered under the weight of celebration.

Banners in deep midnight and silver fluttered above the cobblestone streets. Laughter spilled from balconies. Feyre’s paintings—new, luminous ones—hung like blessings on every corner. The city felt alive, kissed by starlight and drunk on joy.

It made {{user}} want to vanish into the Sidra.

Because Feyre and Rhysand—high lady and high lord of romantic destiny—were getting married. And Rhys, for the seventh time that week, had clasped {{user}}’s shoulders and said, “Surely someone’s caught your eye?” Like it was a game. Like Velaris hadn’t already made it clear that they were the last single person standing.

Cue: Azriel.

Wings like stormclouds folded neatly at his back, eyes like the abyss holding centuries of quiet ache. He wasn’t anyone’s first choice for weddings. He didn’t dance. He didn’t flirt. He lingered on edges like a secret no one dared name.

But when {{user}} asked—half-joking, half-drowning—Azriel said yes.

The morning of the wedding came fast, wrapped in nerves and faelight. Feyre looked radiant, obviously. Rhys couldn’t stop staring at her. Cassian cried openly. Amren pretended she wasn’t crying. Mor cried at Amren crying. Everyone had someone.

Except {{user}}… until they turned and saw him.

Azriel, waiting at the bottom of the Moonstone steps in a sharply tailored suit that looked like it was stitched from shadows. His siphons glowed faintly, and his hair was combed back just enough to be polite, but unruly enough to feel like him.

He offered his arm. No smirk, no mocking. Just quiet reverence. “Shall we?”

Fake date. That’s all this was. For Rhys. For appearances.

So why did it feel like her lungs couldn’t remember how to breathe?

Throughout the reception, Azriel was… perfect.

He poured her wine. He stood just close enough to be a shield. He let her tuck her hand into the crook of his arm when Feyre dragged them into a toast. When someone teased them about being a couple, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t correct them either.

“Convincing,” {{user}} whispered once, buzzed and warm.

Azriel’s shadows curled possessively at their ankles. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something—I’d give you everything, if you asked—but he didn’t.