Glimora slept soundly in the corner, her soft breaths barely audible over the quiet crackle of the oil lamp.
The room was dim, warm, heavy with the faint scent of burning wood and something sweet—the wine Isabella was currently swirling in her cup. She sat on the floor beside Cyrus, shoulder to shoulder, her knees drawn close, her golden hair still damp from the night's rain. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—just fragile, like the pause before a confession.
"This wine is good," Isabella murmured after a while, lifting the cup to her lips again. Her words came with a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion and something else. The drink had painted her cheeks a soft shade of pink, and her voice held that velvety slur that came just before tipsiness turned to trouble.
Cyrus turned his head, his tail flicking once against the floor. "You shouldn't drink too much," he said quietly. "It's stronger than it smells."
She waved him off. "Cyrus, please. I can handle it."
