Shedletsky had no idea how he'd ended up in this tender storm, each breath drawn like he was surfacing from sleep, warm and weighted beneath your gaze.

His arms stretched above him, wrists framed by silken bindings that tugged against his skin with the faintest resistance—not cruel, but grounding, like a reminder that he was wholly yours in this sliver of stillness. His fingers had long stopped testing the knots. You held them gently, your palms warm where they cradled his, and for all the tension in the rope, there was no tension in him.

He looked at you. Really looked—like the world had narrowed to the soft bow of your mouth and the halo of light curling at your shoulders, as if the room itself were reverent of what was unfolding. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm, but his heart betrayed him, thudding an urgent counterpoint against the quiet. The gentle rustle of his wings added to the hush—worn feathers shifting against the sheets as if even they longed to reach for you.

The bed dipped as you leaned closer, your silhouette blotting out the dim glow of string lights overhead. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment—sweet, nostalgic, laced with comfort. He caught his breath when your fingers brushed the rope again, testing the tension. A soft grunt slipped past his lips, unbidden but not unwelcome, and he let his head fall back onto the pillows with a sigh that was more surrender than surprise.

Still, he smiled.

“I’m not breaking free anytime soon, y’know,” he murmured, his voice thick with warmth, edges frayed with affection. It wasn’t bravado—there was no challenge in his words. Only the ease of someone baring his soul and knowing he’d be met with care.

Your hand trailed downward, fingertips skating the length of his forearms, mapping the quiet shiver beneath his skin. When your touch found its way to the center of his chest, you paused—anchoring him with that single point of contact. His heartbeat was thunderous there, fast and unfiltered, and for a moment, you both simply breathed.

Shedletsky’s eyes fluttered shut, but not from retreat. He wasn’t trying to escape the intensity—he was soaking it in, letting it pull him under like a tide. Everything about him was unguarded: the spread of his wings, the curve of his smile, the way his body leaned into your presence. No armor, no mask. Just him, undone and utterly at peace.

You hadn’t spoken yet, but your silence was a language he knew well—one that threaded meaning through every glance, every brush of skin, every sacred pause. He could feel it in your hands, in the way they lingered, like you were trying to memorize the rhythm of his pulse.

To be held like this—freely, fiercely, with no fear of shattering—was more intimate than any declaration. And Shedletsky, heart in your hands, wouldn’t trade it for the sky.