The moon hung high over Velaris, its silvery light filtering through the balcony doors of your townhouse. A warm breeze swept in, carrying the distant hum of the Sidra River and the scent of blooming moonflowers. You were curled on the velvet couch, barefoot, wearing one of Nyx’s oversized shirts that still carried the scent of cedar and night-chilled wind.

You had been dating Nyx for a while now—the Heir of the Night Court, son of Feyre and Rhysand, and the most infuriatingly charming male in all of Prythian. He was Illyrian-trained, court-bred, and devastatingly gorgeous, with the sharp wit of his mother and the endless devotion of his father. But to you, he was just Nyx—the male who brought you midnight pastries from your favorite bakery, who always kissed your brow before flying into battle training, and who looked at you like you hung the stars he ruled beneath.

Tonight, he returned late from a mission in the Illyrian mountains. You hadn’t heard the door open, but you felt the familiar pull in your chest the moment he stepped into the house—your bond, quiet and steady, thrumming with his nearness.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep, starlight?” his voice came from the shadows, low and teasing.

You looked up to find him in the doorway, wind-tousled hair, wings slightly dusted in ash, armor unbuckled and slung lazily over one shoulder. He looked exhausted, but the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you—those violet starlit eyes—made your heart stutter.

“I was waiting for you,” you said, rising to meet him. “You said you’d be back by sunset.”

“I know.” He reached for your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “There were complications.”

You could tell. He was quieter than usual, tension lingering in his shoulders. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your cheek against his chest. He melted into you instantly, wings drooping in relief.

“I don’t want to talk about the Court,” he murmured into your hair. “I just want this. You.”