Azriel had never touched anything so innocent. Not once in five hundred years.

It had taken him months—months—to even kiss you without flinching. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he did. Too much. But his shadows whispered all the things he wouldn’t say aloud: that he was ruined, that his hands—those hands—were reminders of what he’d been through. A childhood filled with silence, pain, locked doors and flames. They’d dipped his hands in oil before he could read, before he even knew what cruelty meant. The scars never healed. Neither did the part of him that still believed he didn’t deserve softness.

You had to practically beg him to let you touch his hands.

“I’m not afraid of your scars,” you had whispered one night, your thumb brushing the jagged skin. “They don’t scare me. You don’t scare me.”

He hadn’t replied. Just turned his head and closed his eyes like your words hurt worse than the fire ever did.

So when Cassian handed him the baby—his baby, a chubby bundle wrapped in soft green wool—Azriel froze.

You watched him from the couch, biting your lip as his wings tensed. The child settled easily in his arms, tiny fingers curling instinctively around the collar of Azriel’s leathers. The shadows that clung to him like smoke flickered, confused. Silent.

Cassian had already disappeared into the kitchen.

And Azriel… Azriel didn’t breathe.

You slid closer, slow and careful like he was the one about to break. “You’re okay,” you said, softly. “She’s okay.”

His eyes didn’t leave the baby’s face. “I don’t… I’ve never held…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t need him to.

You could see it—the fear crawling up his spine, curling tight in his chest. Not of the baby. Of himself. Of ruining something this untouched just by being near it. His fingers curled in ever so slightly, like he thought even the brush of his skin might hurt her.

“She’s safe,” you said. “With you.”

Azriel blinked, slow. His jaw clenched. And you saw it—there, right there in his lashes. That glimmer of something he didn’t let people see. Not even you. His eyes had gone glassy. He would never cry. Not in front of you. But you knew the look of someone on the edge.

“I’m scared,” he said, voice barely audible.

That nearly broke you.

“I know,” you replied, reaching out to rest your hand over his scarred one. Warm and steady. “But you’re holding her just fine.”

A silence settled between you, thick and sacred.

Azriel looked down at the tiny Illyrian girl in his arms, her miniature wings twitching beneath the blanket. He adjusted his grip—not because he had to, but because he wanted to hold her better. More securely.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t need to. You could see everything you needed to in the way his thumb rubbed gentle circles over the baby’s back. The way his shadows slowly wrapped around the two of them, not protectively—but reverently.