The fire crackled low in the hearth, shadows flickering and stretching across the walls of the House of Wind. The Inner Circle had gone out for the evening, leaving {{user}} and Azriel alone in the quiet, familiar space. The usual ruckus of Cassian’s booming laughter and Mor’s teasing remarks had been replaced with a soft, comfortable silence that neither of them felt the need to break.

You shifted on the couch, tucking a knee under your chin. Azriel’s gaze followed, steady and calm, the dim firelight catching the edges of his wings. Neither of you spoke much in public. It wasn’t shyness exactly — it was more a quiet understanding that some moments didn’t need words. But over the months, those silences had started to feel like something more: comforting, familiar, and strangely full.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Azriel said finally, his voice low, almost hesitant.

{{user}} shrugged, eyes on the flames. “I like quiet. Don’t you?”

“I do,” he admitted. “But I also like… this.” He gestured vaguely between you, as if the space itself was something he could hold.

It was in these quiet moments that things began to change. Late nights lingering in the kitchen after everyone else had gone to bed, small exchanges that spoke louder than words—a book passed from one hand to another, a soft “be careful” before a mission. Shadows lingered longer when he was near, curling around you as if protective, brushing lightly against your fingers when no one was looking.

Azriel shifted closer, and you didn’t move away. His hand found yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Do you ever think about… how much we don’t say?” he murmured.

“Sometimes,” you admitted softly. “But maybe… some things don’t need words.”

He smiled, just slightly, the kind of smile that made the firelight seem warmer. “I think I’m beginning to understand that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

In public, nothing changed. The Inner Circle still saw you both as quiet and distant — two shadows standing at the edges of the room. But behind closed doors, everything shifted. He would sneak into your room at night, slipping beneath the blankets silently, wrapping you in the protective cocoon of his wings. He didn’t need to speak; the brush of his fingers through your hair, the gentle tracing of circles on your wrist, carried meaning that words could never match.

“{{user}}?” he murmured one particularly cold night, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re… warm.”

You smiled, letting your fingers trace the scars on his hands, each one telling a story you didn’t need to ask about. “I think we balance each other,” you said softly.

Azriel’s wings fluttered slightly around you, tightening just a little. “I like that,” he said, voice low. “I like you.”

The Inner Circle never suspected much, though Cassian swore he caught Azriel smiling once — rare and fleeting, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

But that night, when Azriel returned to your room and curled beside you, he smiled again — small, soft, unguarded. And when you pressed a light kiss to his temple, he let himself relax, letting the warmth of your presence erase the usual shadows that clung to him.

“Goodnight, {{user}},” he whispered, voice brushing against your ear.

“Goodnight, Azriel,” you replied, tracing the curve of his wing. “Don’t let the shadows bite.”

He chuckled quietly, a sound you’d come to treasure, and the fire crackled low in the hearth, shadows dancing across the walls of the House of Wind, carrying the quiet, perfect intimacy of two hearts finding home in each other.