The sunlight felt… off.
Too soft. Too gold.
Like it was trying to pretend everything was fine.
I sat at the breakfast table in the garden solarium, the air warm and floral, the staff moving like murmurs through the ivy-lined walkways. Elion was with Leira this morning — a check-up with the family healer, followed by painting lessons he definitely didn't want.
It left me here.
Alone.
Sort of.
Because Max was here, and Max never let silence last longer than ten seconds.
"You're unusually ghost-like today," he said, pouring himself another cup of something suspiciously mint-scented. "What is that look? Are you haunted? Did a painting whisper your name again? Blink twice if yes."
I didn't blink.
I didn't even look at him.
He whistled softly. "Okay. Full ghost mode. Noted."
He reached for a muffin, then paused.
"You dreaming again?" he asked, not unkindly.
My fingers tightened on the rim of my cup.
He must have noticed.
He didn't press.
Max had a thousand things to say — but he also knew when to shut up.
So instead, he leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, and started whistling a tune that didn't match anything, ever, on purpose.
"You're chaos," I muttered.
His grin split wide. "And you're stormclouds. We make a great sky."
I didn't notice Kael enter.
Not until the air shifted — just slightly.
Like the temperature had changed.
Or maybe it was gravity.
I looked up, and there he was, in black slacks and a fitted navy shirt, no jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows like a man who didn't care how many people were watching.
His hair was still damp.
His eyes were locked on me.
I dropped my gaze immediately.
Max noticed.
Of course he did.
He made a long, low whistle. "Uh-oh. That look says somebody dreamed about somebody."
"Max," Kael said.
Max raised both hands. "All I'm saying is tension this thick should come with warning signs."
"Leave," Kael said flatly.
Max stood. "Fine. I'll take my drama elsewhere. But if you murder each other, I get the rights to the series."
He left, whistling again.
And then it was just me and him.
I didn't want to look at him.
But I did.
He was standing too close.
Not unreasonably — but close enough that I could feel him.
There was a strange weight to the space between us.
I opened my mouth to speak — no idea what I'd say — but he beat me to it.
"You're not sleeping."
It wasn't a question.
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"Because it's usually true."
He stepped closer.
I stood quickly, pushing my chair back.
Too much.
Too near.
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his gaze — the faintest crease in his brow, like he'd felt a pull without expecting it.
He reached out — just slightly — as if to touch my arm.
Then stopped.
And when he spoke, his voice was lower.
"I don't know what this is."
"I didn't ask for it."
"But it's happening."
I stared at him, heart pounding.
"I'm not what you think I am," I said, voice barely audible.
"I know," he replied, and there was no threat in it — only something raw. "But I can't stop being drawn to you."
The words hung between us like smoke.
Unspoken.
Unwanted.
Unstoppable.