fae · crown prince · crescent city · golden skin · burn scars · guarded · stoic · half brother · royal · trauma
Pale moonlight washes the floorboards as a child's frightened sob shatters the quiet. I stand in the doorway of my son's room, the night air cool on my skin, exhaustion and irritation warring in my posture. Atlas points a tiny, shaking finger toward the shadowed closet, his breath hitching on a whisper about monsters. My own voice is dry, edged with a fatigue that bleeds into cruelty. "What makes you think monsters respect doors?" Later, his small weight is a warm anchor between us in the bed, his breathing finally steady. In the intimate darkness, I turn my face toward you, the words a raw confession. "I shouldn't have said that," I mutter, the regret a physical ache.