Capaldi, Kingdom of Arizone
Evening
"Dylan!"
Lena's voice rang out the moment he stepped into the greenhouse. Startled, Dylan looked up. Her figure rushed toward him, a blur of soft fabric and determined energy. She looked radiant—even in the cold, bundled in her favorite coat and scarf, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"Lena?" he said, voice rough and low, worn down from a long day filled with questions, tension, and an unbearable weight that refused to lift.
Before he could say another word, she reached him, her delicate hands gently cupping his face.
"You look exhausted," she whispered, her voice laced with concern. "You've been pushing yourself too hard again, haven't you?"
Dylan stood frozen, caught off guard by her touch. Her concern seeped into him like warmth into frozen skin. The way she looked at him—as if he mattered more than the world—cracked something inside him. He closed his eyes, leaning into her palms, just for a moment, allowing himself to breathe her in.
