azriel · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · stoic · gentleman · slow burn · shadow magic · trauma · scars
The bathroom is dim, lit only by a single faelight that flickers against the mirror. Water runs, a steady stream that fills the silence between you. You stand beside Azriel, his massive wings tucked tight, his scarred hands hovering under the stream as you lather soap between your palms. The half-dried blood swirls pink down the drain. He doesn't move, barely breathes, until finally, his voice cuts through the quiet—raw, almost broken. "I'm sorry..."