Mira leaned down, kissing his forehead, her lips warm, lingering just a moment.
"You'll learn. Just don't wall yourself off. And try not to make any more girls scream tonight—unless it's from joy." Her eyes twinkled, teasing.
"Gross," Lor muttered, but his lips curled faintly, a wry smile breaking through.
She rose, tugging the blanket over his shoulder, her touch gentle. "Good night, my impossible son."
"Night, Mom."
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Lor in silence, staring at the ceiling.
The sheets still held Kiara's scent—her perfume, her sweat, the electric pulse of her mana, lingering like a ghost on his skin.
Her words echoed, sharp and cruel: loser, not hot, far from it, scrawny, awkward, nothing.
Each cut deeper, a clean incision through his chest.
She'd called him a shadow, dismissed him like he was beneath her notice.
She could've been gentle.
She chose cruelty.
