The living room is bathed in a dim, golden light, warm and peaceful. It clings to the edges of the furniture, softens the sharp lines of the room, and makes everything feel slower, heavier, as though time itself has decided to pause and let the evening breathe.
I sit on the couch, leaning back into the plush cushions, my glasses resting loosely on the bridge of my nose. The tablet screen glows in my hands, casting a pale blue light across my face as I scroll through the documents.
Silas walks in, freshly showered, his night suit soft and loose against his skin. His hair is still damp, brown strands clinging to his temples, and he rubs them absently with a towel, the motion unhurried, almost dreamlike. Water droplets catch the dim light as they fall from the ends of his hair, glinting like tiny, transient stars before disappearing into the fabric of his collar.
The faint scent of his pheromones, soap, and warm skin follows him, wrapping around me before he even sits down.
