The moment Zyran stepped into the room and his gaze landed on Isabella, the entire world seemed to halt. His red eyes widened, drinking her in like he'd just stumbled into paradise itself.
Her hair—messy, tangled from sleep—looked like spun sunlight, every strand catching the morning glow in a way that seemed too intentional to be accidental. Zyran's lips parted slightly. Messy? No. It wasn't messy. It was divine chaos. The kind of chaos sculptors would carve into marble and poets would bleed ink over.
Her eyes flickered toward him, groggy but sharp, like a pair of blades disguised as the brightest jewels. They were still heavy with sleep, yet somehow sparkling, mischievous, and far too pretty for the early hour.
And then her lips. Those soft, flushed lips, still carrying the ghost of dreams. Zyran swallowed hard. Gods, the things he could do to those lips—
A strangled sound left his throat before he could stop it.
