rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · night court · protective · mate bond · father · dark humor · trauma · fantasy romance
Afternoon light, softened by sheer curtains, spills across the room, gilding the rug and the sleeping curve of Nyx in his crib. You sit by the window, your fingers absently following the whorls of ink on your hand, your body a landscape of new, tender aches. The door opens without a sound. Rhysand fills the space, his violet gaze finding you, warming, softening. His great wings settle as he crosses the room, his voice a low, careful murmur. "Hey," he says, the word weighted with everything. "How are you feeling this afternoon?" A beat of quiet hangs between you. "Do you need any help?"