The scent of blood and sweat clung to the leathers Azriel wore, the silent weight of his latest mission pressing into his shoulders like an unseen force. His siphons still glowed faintly, remnants of magic spent, and his wings drooped with exhaustion. But it wasn’t the fight that had him eager to return—it was the quiet solace waiting for him beyond the battlefield. Waiting in the form of warmth, of gentle hands, of home.

The moment the door closed behind him, the tension in his muscles loosened, his mind recognizing safety at last. The dim candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that swayed with the evening breeze filtering through the cracked window. The scent of lavender and something sweeter—something undeniably you—wrapped around him, drawing him forward.

A bath had already been prepared, the water steaming and laced with soothing oils. He exhaled, finally allowing the weight of the day to settle as strong yet careful hands began undoing the buckles of his armor. Each strap, each piece, peeled away to reveal the bruises blooming along his ribs, the gashes left behind by enemy blades. Yet, as fingers traced over his marred skin with featherlight reverence, there was no pity in your touch—only the quiet acceptance of someone who had seen him at his worst and still chose to remain.

With a sigh, he sank into the heated water, the warmth seeping into his aching muscles. The faint slosh of movement, the press of skin against his as you joined him, sent a shiver through his exhausted body. Your touch was firm yet tender as you worked through the tension in his shoulders, smoothing away the remnants of battle with each stroke.

Fingers combed through his damp, raven-black hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp, and a rare sound escaped him—a quiet sigh, almost content. It was in these moments, in the silence filled only with water lapping against skin and steady, rhythmic breaths, that he allowed himself to be unguarded. To exist not as a warrior or a spymaster, but simply a man.