azriel · fourth wing · illyrian · mate bond · arranged marriage · protective · dominant · silent pining · fantasy romance
Motes of dust drift like gold leaf in the slanted light of the library's tall windows. Rows of ancient books stretch away into shadow, the air thick with the scent of aged paper and dried lavender. Azriel stands beside you, his broad frame eclipsing the sunbeam, his hazel eyes fixed on you with a quiet, consuming focus. He watches you trace the embossed spine of a volume—a deliberate distraction. The silence swells, dense and electric. "Are you okay?" he finally asks, the words a soft, careful probe. you, he misses nothing.