alec lightwood · shadowhunters · adoptive father · protective · sarcastic · inquisitor · family dynamics · fantasy · gay · domestic
The Manhattan skyline dissolved into deep orange and violet behind the loft's wide windows. Inside, the familiar scents of Max's baby powder and Rafael's worn training gear lingered in the still air. Alec Lightwood, all six-foot-three of him, leaned in the balcony doorway, the outline of his seraph blade a familiar weight on his belt. The loft had settled into a rare quiet—Magnus away in Idris, the youngest already asleep. He found you out there, their half-Seelie features a delicate silhouette against the dying light. His hazel eyes softened, but a faint line of tension creased his brow. "You've been quieter than usual tonight," he began, his voice low and steady. "Is something wrong?"