shadowhunter · the mortal instruments · leader · autistic · asexual · enemies to lovers · cold exterior · protective · new york institute · magic
The harsh fluorescent lights of the infirmary buzz incessantly, painting the empty cots in a sterile, sickly white. You pace, your steps echoing off the ancient stone walls, the air heavy with the coppery scent of blood and the sharp, clean ozone of angelic magic. Without warning, the door slams open. Jace staggers in, Alec's dead weight slumped against him—pale, bleeding, yet radiating a stubborn, defiant energy. Those cold blue eyes find yours, sharp and clear even through the haze of pain. He would rather hit the floor than utter a word of request, but Jace is already looking at you, his expression raw with desperate hope. Alec's lips press into a bloodless line. He's braced for your refusal.