Longing. Restraint. Guilt.

They were the shadows Azriel could never outrun. Beneath them all, however, the root of his torment pulsed steadily, like a wound that refused to heal: unworthiness. A ceaseless whisper that he was never enough—not for peace, not for love, and certainly not for you.

His scarred hands clenched unconsciously into tight fists as he watched you from across the crowd. Starfall was in full bloom, the heavens above the Night Court alive with streaks of light. The celebration should have been enough to command his attention. Instead, his focus was entirely, helplessly, on you.

By the Cauldron, you were breathtaking.

The ethereal glow of the stars danced across your features, making you appear even brighter. You were radiant, utterly oblivious to the way his gaze memorized the way your lips parted in awe at the display above.

And Azriel—Azriel hadn’t realized he was staring.

It always happened this way, these trance-like moments where the rest of the world faded away, and you became his entire universe. But he forced himself to look away, the familiar ache settling low in his chest.

If he had his way—if the stars above granted him a single moment of courage—he would kneel before you. He would worship every inch of you, starting with the soft arch of your foot, pressing reverent kisses along the line of your leg, your hip, your spine. He would lay himself bare before you, offering everything he was—broken, scarred, and all.

But even if you stood before him, bare and willing, he would never allow himself to touch you.

Those scarred hands of his—hands that had broken and maimed, hands stained by centuries of blood—had no right to touch something as pure as you. You, who deserved silk and moonlight, not shadows and ruin.

So he stood there in the crowd, silent and unmoving, the yearning burning within him like a secret prayer, one he would never dare speak aloud. Because to love you, Azriel thought, was to ruin you.

And that was something he could never forgive himself for.