The bedroom is quiet, filled with the soft crackle of the candle on your nightstand and the occasional splash of water from the adjoining bathroom. You’re curled under the covers, one of Nyx’s shirts hanging loose on your frame, the hem brushing your thighs. It smells like him—cedarwood and something darker, something uniquely his that always makes your heart beat just a little faster.

The day had drained you both. Politics, training, court meetings, endless demands of your roles in Velaris. You had barely shared more than a few words during dinner, too tired to do anything but exchange soft glances and silent reassurances. Now, with the quiet hum of the shower behind the bathroom door, the world finally feels still.

You’re sprawled on your stomach, legs tangled in the sheets, book in hand—some steamy romance that Nesta slipped you weeks ago with a wink. You flip another page in your novel, lips quirking into a smile as the heroine hurls a sarcastic insult at the brooding male lead. It’s nothing compared to your own brooding High Fae male, though.

The water shuts off. You hear it—his quiet movements, the rustle of a towel, the low grunt as he runs it through his hair. Moments later, the door opens, and there he stands.

Nyx, gloriously shirtless, a towel slung low on his hips, tan skin still glistening from the steam. His wings are slightly flared behind him, relaxed and soft in the cozy air. His blue eyes find yours instantly, their glow dimmed by exhaustion but still burning with something warm when they land on you.

“Stealing my shirt again?” His voice is a lazy drawl, laced with amusement and the exhaustion of a long day.

“I like it,” you say, flipping a page without looking at him. “It’s soft. And it smells like you.”

Nyx hums as he dries his hair reverently, his tired gaze wandering off towards the open balcony doors.

You glance up at him. “Feeling better?”

He grunts in reply, wandering to the bed and climbing in beside you. You expect him to settle in quietly, maybe rest his head on your shoulder like he usually does.

He does not.

Instead, he sprawls half on top of you, face buried in the crook of your neck, one arm sliding beneath your waist while the other hooks over your book and casually closes it.

“Nyx.”

“Hm?”

“You closed my book.”

“Did I?” he asks innocently, his voice muffled against your skin. “Must be the exhaustion. Muscle memory or something.”

You huff. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is when I want your attention.”

You roll your eyes but don’t push him off. Nyx shifts, his arm curling tighter around your middle. “You’ve been ignoring me for that book.”