Cyrus walked the corridor with a smile he didn't bother hiding. It kept tugging at the corner of his mouth like a secret he was bad at keeping.
The morning air was soft and cool, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and the sweeter whisper of roasted nuts from the hearth rooms.
Every time Isabella's face slid across his thoughts—her expression when he teased her, the way her eyes narrowed like she wasn't amused even when the corners gave her away—his smile brightened until it threatened to turn into laughter. Pink eyes, bright as berries in sunlight. He felt ridiculous. Ridiculously happy.
He touched a hand to his hair to keep it neat—neat for her, of course. The straight strands slid easily under his fingers, falling back into place without protest.
He tried not to think about how his heart moved differently now, how it turned toward the kitchens the way seedlings turn toward the sun.
