The inn room was quiet except for the low creak of the window shutters and the soft, uneven breathing of three very exhausted adventurers. Morning light painted the room in gold and dust, cutting through the lingering haze of alcohol and sweat.
Ariana stirred first.
Her eyes cracked open to the dim light, brain struggling to piece together where she was—and more importantly, what she was feeling. Her entire body felt… heavy. Sore in strange places. Warm. And pressed against something—no, someone.
She blinked once.
Then twice.
And froze.
Oliver was there—sleeping shirtless beside her, an arm slung loosely around Isolde's waist. His other hand… her hand… was still faintly intertwined with his. The realization hit, and her face turned red enough to rival a phoenix's feather.
"Oh gods… no…" she whispered under her breath, clutching the blanket up to her face. "No, no, no—"
