The brush was still in Cyra's hand when the door burst open without so much as a knock.
"Hello, bestie! I hope it's ok that the weird girl let me in, she's kind o— " Emily's familiar voice flooded the room, followed by the sharp click of her heeled pumps on the marble floor.
She swept in like she was arriving at a red carpet event, oversized sunglasses perched in her long brown hair. A small designer cross-bag hugged against her chest. She froze in that pose as she digested the scene before her.
Clara stiffened, heat rising in her. "Emily—"
"Um… am I interrupting?," Emily cut in, with a big teasing grin. "I leave you for five minutes and you're in bed with him, looking like some romance character with him brushing your hair?"
Her grin was even more devilish when she turned toward Cyra. "Sir, you're setting impossible standards for the rest of mankind, you know that right."
Cyra's smirk was sharp and wicked. "I do aim high," he spilled, deliberately slow as he set the brush aside.
Clara groaned. "Emily, it's not—it's nothing like that ok, both of you stop being gross."
"Oh, sure," Emily teased, "Nothing like that, except for the fact that you look like a tomato you're blushing so hard." She winked. "Honestly, it's giving soft launch couple vibes."
Cyra leaned back against the headboard, utterly unbothered, and watched the exchange like it was prime entertainment.
Clara could practically feel his satisfaction radiating off him and she shot him a look.
"Emily." Clara tried for stern but sounded more like a flustered teacher scolding a child.
"What? I'm just saying. I'm literally living in a will-they-won't-they webnovel at this point, just bang already." Emily plopped down on the edge of the bed, crossing her long legs. "Boyfriend and girlfriend energy, babe. Unless— you have already?"
Clara's jaw dropped. "We're not—we're—" she stammered, words collapsing into each other.
Emily smiled a knowing grin. "Uh-huh. Tell that to the way you keep bringing him up in literally every conversation.— Do you know how many times in the last week she's said 'Well, Cyra this and Cyra that'? Like, I could make a highlight reel."
Cyra's dark eyes glinted with delight as they flicked toward Clara. "Oh?" His voice was velvet, curiosity cutting through her like a blade. "So I am a topic of conversation?"
Clara whipped her gaze toward Emily, scandalized. "Why would you say that in front of him?"
Emily shrugged, unrepentantly. "I figured he knew."
The brush still lay between them, a quiet reminder of the softness they'd just shared. Clara felt the contradiction tugging at her chest—her guard still half-up, her blush betraying everything she wanted to keep locked down. Damn.
Cyra's hand brushed lightly against her shoulder. His voice was low and even. "Careful, Clara. If she keeps talking, I might start to believe her."
Clara's heart thudded in her chest, traitorously.
"Sorry Clair Bear, I thought you would have told him how you feel by now."
Clara sighed. "I just… there's no.. I mean there is, well might be— ugh you two are giving me a headache." She rubbed the side of her temple.
Cyra eyes flashed up sharply at her words and was by her side in one fluid motion. He grabbed her hand without hesitation and scanned her eyes for pain.
Both girls stared wide eyed and silent.
"He's so attentive!" Emily fawned. "Is there a factory that makes more of you because I'm gonna need one in the latest model please!"
When he found no trace of pain in her eyes, he relaxed slightly, though his hand lingered over hers.
"I'm a limited edition."
Emily's teasing softened as she glanced between them. "Seriously though, Clara, how are your ribs? And your stomach? You look pale."
Clara hesitated. "I'm fine."
"Uh huh. She's not doing school stuff right now, is she?"
Cyra's voice was calm, but firm. "No. She's supposed to be resting."
"Good." Emily flipped her hair over one shoulder. "Then I'll handle her professors. My mom owes me a favor for forgetting about my birthday this year so she can make some calls to the board."
She turned to Clara with a look that was part sass, part genuine concern. "See? This is why you need us rich kids around, my little socialist. Connections."
Clara groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "You two are insufferably spoiled."
"We're efficient," Emily corrected, then glanced at Cyra. "Since I'll be busy keeping up with her school assignments, she should stay here. It's safer. Easier for you to watch her."
"Agreed," Cyra said immediately, no hesitation.
"Excuse me?" Clara sat up with an incredulous look. "I'm right here, you know."
"Exactly," Emily said sweetly. "And you're staying here."
Clara sighed, recognizing she'd already lost this battle. "Fine. But I'm not a child."
Cyra smirked. "Then stop pouting like one."
Cyra and Emily exchanged a smile.
"Exactly!" Emily rose from the bed. "I'll stop by your place and bring you some clothes and essentials tomorrow. And textbooks. Maybe some food."
She turned back to Cyra. "There's no way someone this pretty cooks too, right?"
Cyra half-smiled arrogantly. "I'm actually an excellent cook, or so I've been told."
Turning to Clara, "Ok, I'm officially jealous of you, please marry him now."
"His food is annoying good." Clara reluctantly agreed. "At least, better than Natalia's medicinal soup. I'm traumatized."
"Was that Natalia who opened the door for me? Cyra mentioned her a few times when he came over."
"Yes. She's the one who has been helping Clara," Cyra said. "But she's stretched thin. Asked me to hire an assistant."
Emily hummed thoughtfully. "I wish I could help, but like I said, I'll be buried catching Clara up with her professors. I can send a few candidates over if that would help."
"Thank you," Cyra said sincerely.
Emily flashed a bright smile. "Of course. She's my person." She grabbed her purse and with a wave, swept out the door as quickly as she came.
Silence settled. Clara turned to Cyra, who was watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.
"You two get along so well," Clara said softly.
He didn't answer. Instead, his voice dropped to a near whisper.
"So you've been talking about me."
Clara groaned, shoving the covers over her head.
"I'm tired." Her muffled voice from under the covers sounded defeated.
A faint chuckle escaped him, warm and low. He climbed into the bed beside her, pulling the blanket down just enough to slip his hand into hers.
He sighed at the mound of blanket-covered Clara. "Come 'er, I can't reach your side."
The mound scooted an inch closer. Cyra chuckled again. With a devilish smile he pulled her closer to him. She peered slightly over the blanket, big blue eyes fixed to his.
"Sleep," he murmured.
She allowed it, letting herself drift as his thumb traced lazy circles on her knuckles and his other hand lay gently on her rib cage.
Cyra stayed awake, eyes on her sleeping face. The walls around him felt less like walls and more like protection. She was staying. He already knew that she would most likely recover at his house but hearing it confirmed felt heavenly. He also thought about how his enigmatic Clara had been talking about him to her most trusted person.
He allowed euphoria to consume him as he bent low and pressed a kiss to her forehead, feather-light.
For once, he felt… content.