Cyrus lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as steam from Kane's shower drifted under the bathroom door.
He could hear the shower running through the penthouse walls, a steady rhythm that should have been soothing.
Every time he closed his eyes, Kane's laughter echoed through his mind—bright and unrestrained as they'd shot down the Crimson Cyclone.
Cyrus rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow.
The memory of feeding Kane dessert surfaced next, vivid and torturous.
The way Kane's lips had parted, trusting and vulnerable. How his amber eyes had darkened when Cyrus leaned close with the napkin.
Then came the memory that made his chest tighten—Kane's fearless glare as he'd faced down the rogue spirit.
Kane had no hesitation or instincts of self-preservation.
Just pure determination to protect the innocent civilians around them, even without his weapon.
