Isabella's gaze dropped to the ground, lashes low, jaw tight. Her arms stayed folded stiffly over her chest like she was bracing herself against him—and her own thoughts.
She didn't want to look up.
Not again.
Not at that smug, unbearably confident face she was sure Zyran was wearing like always.
She didn't have it in her tonight. Not the patience. Not the strength.
Her pride was still nursing wounds he didn't even bother to bandage.
But what she didn't know—what she didn't even sense—was that the smugness wasn't there.
Not this time.
Zyran wasn't smiling. Not even a little.
His brow was faintly creased, his jaw locked in a way that barely showed, and his glowing red eyes flickered with something unreadable. There was tension in his shoulders. Not battle-readiness. Not mischief.
Something else.
"You seem tired," Zyran said softly, breaking the silence as he gently reached for her.
His finger tipped under her chin—gentle, not forceful—and lifted her face toward his.
