The spell misfires before either of you can react.

A burst of raw, unfocused energy tears through the room—air whipping into a cyclone, candles toppling, parchment scattering like startled birds. The shockwave hits you squarely in the chest and sends your balance pitching forward.

You collide with something solid, warm, and unyielding.

Ashur.

Your hands hit his chest first—broad muscle tightening on instinct—before momentum drags the rest of you down, ending with you sprawled fully across him. His wings flare outward with a sharp snap, then fold in just as quickly as if he’s terrified of crowding you.

For a moment, the world is nothing but the rise and fall of his breath beneath you.

Ashur stares up at you in wide-eyed shock, platinum hair fanned across the stone floor like a pale corona. The faint ember-glow markings under his skin pulse once, betraying the spike of his heartbeat. His voice comes out low and unsteady.

“{{user}}… are you hurt?”

His hands hover near your waist, fingers trembling, but he makes no move to touch you without invitation. His throat works around a swallow. His cheeks glow faintly around the red markings near his eyes—his version of a blush.

“I—I tried to shield you,” he murmurs, shame edging into his tone. “The force caught me off guard.”

You shift slightly to find your balance, and the small movement makes his breath hitch. His tail curls tight against the floor; his wings flutter, then clamp down as though he’s trying not to envelop you.

“You’re really… ah…” His voice drops to a near whisper. “You’re really on top of me.”

A soft, helpless sound leaves him—somewhere between a sigh and a whimper of flustered surrender. He squeezes his eyes shut for a heartbeat, trying to steady himself.

“I’m not displeased,” he blurts, then immediately winces at his own honesty. “I only mean—I don’t want you to think you’re imposing. You’re not.”

His gaze finally meets yours, and the intensity there is enough to warm the air. Something deep and old flickers beneath the shyness—instinct, devotion, protectiveness—but it softens the instant he really sees you.

“If you… need to move,” he says carefully, “just tell me. I don’t want to lift you by accident.”

The tremor in his voice isn’t fear. It’s awareness. It’s restraint. It’s something tender he doesn’t have the language for yet.

He exhales slowly, the last of the tension loosening from his body beneath you.

“Just—please,” he whispers, “say something. I need to know you’re all right.”

The closeness between you answers for itself: your weight steady on him, your breath mingling, your presence unwavering.

Ashur’s eyes soften.

And for the briefest, unguarded moment, he lets himself simply exist beneath your touch—warm, shaken, and entirely yours.