The dinner table buzzed with laughter and conversation, but you couldn’t focus on anything except the silent tension between you and Azriel. He sat across from you, a glass of wine in his hand, his usual stoic expression betraying nothing of what had happened between you last week.

You both pretended to be fine, but every time your eyes met, there was a flash of memory—his touch, the heat of the kiss, the way your name had slipped from his lips in a breathless whisper. You hadn’t planned for any of it, least of all to be lying to the people you called family.

Azriel shifted in his seat, his gaze briefly flickering to you before he looked away. His wings twitched slightly, betraying his unease, but neither of you spoke.

Feyre and Rhysand exchanged a knowing look, but neither of them commented. The tension was palpable, a tightrope walk between acknowledgment and avoidance, and you couldn’t decide whether it was easier to confess or keep pretending it had never happened.