By 9 PM the inn had quieted down—the last of the customers gone, the candles along the counter melting into short, flickering stubs. Oliver sat by the window in his room, the faint orange glow of the city lights spilling across the table. His shirt was half-open, his hair still damp from the bath. He was leaning back, eyes half-lidded, lost somewhere between fatigue and thought.
A soft knock came.
"Come in," he said, already guessing who it was.
The door creaked open, and Isolde stepped inside—dressed casually for once, her long white hair loose, a thin nightgown brushing just past her thighs. The moonlight from the window caught the smooth line of her skin, making her look almost unreal.
"You're not sleeping yet," she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar tone—a mix of curiosity and quiet judgment.
Oliver gave a faint grin. "Couldn't sleep. My body's fine now, but my head's still buzzing."
