The sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the west wing chamber, casting golden light across the bed where two figures lay entangled beneath silk sheets.
Aria blinked awake first, warmth blooming in her chest as she registered the gentle rise and fall of Kazriel's breathing beside her.
His arm was still around her waist. His forehead nearly touched hers. And his scent—clean, calming, something faintly like forest after rain—still lingered in the air.
She smiled softly, cheeks flushing at the memory of last night.
No regrets.
Only this strange fluttering comfort.
"…Kazriel," she whispered, barely nudging him.
He didn't budge.
"Kazriel," she said again, a little louder.
One eye cracked open.
Then, without a word, he pulled her closer, burying his face in her shoulder with a deep, satisfied sigh.
"Mm… five more minutes," he mumbled into her skin.
Aria's breath hitched.
"Y-You can't just…!" she stammered, voice flustered as her face turned crimson. "We have responsibilities—people will start talking!"
He only grinned sleepily, still not letting go.
"They already are," he murmured. "Might as well give them something worth gossiping about."
"Kazriel!"
She tried to sound offended.
She really did.
But her heart betrayed her—thudding wildly as his fingers gently traced lazy circles on her back.
She melted into his arms, the fight fading fast.
"…Fine," she mumbled.
He chuckled. "Knew you'd come around."
And so, for a few stolen minutes more, they stayed like that—wrapped in warmth, whispers, and the quiet kind of love that didn't need to be declared.
It was already written in how they held each other.