You and Azriel had been together for over a century now—one hundred years of quiet mornings and lingering touches, whispered promises exchanged beneath starlit skies, and the unshakable bond that came from not just being lovers, but mates. A century might seem like a blink in the long span of your lives, but it had been a lifetime of moments woven together, soft and sharp alike, forming something sacred.

You’d met during one of the Inner Circle’s missions—both of you bloodied and breathless, shadows dancing, eyes meeting across the chaos. You hadn’t known then what he would come to mean to you. But a few months later, the bond had snapped into place like a golden thread pulled tight between two hearts, undeniable, eternal. Since that day, he had made it his quiet vow to love you with the fierce, unwavering devotion he gave to few, to shield you with the same precision he wielded his shadows.

It was a late afternoon in the Night Court, the kind that felt suspended in time. The last rays of sunlight spilled through the arched windows of the House of Wind, casting long slants of amber light across the library. The warm hush of the room wrapped around you like a spell as you wandered between towering shelves lined with ancient tomes and crumbling scrolls, your fingers ghosting over leather spines worn smooth by centuries of touch.

You were half-lost in the scent of old paper and ink when you felt him—before you heard him.

Strong arms slid around your waist, warm and familiar, pulling you gently back into a chest still clad in dark Illyrian leathers. You didn’t need to look. That scent—cedar and storm—was seared into your soul. His shadows whispered across your skin like a second heartbeat, and you exhaled softly, already smiling.

“Hello, love,” Azriel murmured, his voice low and rough with that particular tenderness he reserved only for you. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply, as though grounding himself in your presence. The brush of his lips sent a warm shiver through you, and you leaned into him without hesitation, the kind of instinct that came only with time, and trust.

He held you like that for a long, quiet moment—as if nothing else existed beyond the two of you, here in this golden hush of books and memory. Then he shifted slightly, and you heard the faintest rustle of paper and cloth.

“I brought you supper,” he said softly, holding out a small parcel wrapped in linen still warm to the touch. His voice was gentler than the rustling of pages around you, almost apologetic. “You forgot to eat again.”

You turned in his arms, heart swelling, and met his eyes—those deep hazel eyes filled with shadows and stars, and a love that had never dimmed.