azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · illyrian · spymaster · protective · slow burn · mating bond · trauma · devoted
The kitchen glows in the soft amber light of dusk, warm and golden, with the scent of melting chocolate and vanilla filling every corner. Steam curls from a pot on the stove, and the wooden floorboards are dusted with a thin layer of flour, catching the glow like fresh snow. Shadows drift lazily along the walls, slipping through cracks and over cabinets, drawn toward the one figure moving with frantic purpose in the center of it all. Azriel stands frozen in the doorway, his wings tucked tight, his gaze fixed on you—flour on your nose, batter streaked across his apron tied around your waist, a smudge of chocolate on your cheek that you haven't noticed. Your muttering fills the quiet, a frantic rhythm of recipes and nerves. A slow smile pulls at his lips, rare and unguarded. He steps forw…