Yeara's eyes locked with his, and Zalthor's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile.
They had barely exchanged words, yet the silence between them felt like a foreign language—one crafted just for the two of them, spoken without sound, understood far too well, as though it had been waiting for them to meet.
"A… Are you going to put it in now?" Yeara's voice was curious, and the words seemed to loosen Zalthor's grip on her. Her legs sank onto the bed, and she clutched the duvet to her chest. A faint flush spread across her cheeks, neck, and chest.
Zalthor moved the duvet to cover her more fully, noticing the shy embarrassment painting her features.
She lay there, eyes wide and curious, watching him quietly. He remained seated, his hands raking through his hair, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls of the room. Perhaps he was moving too fast—maybe he didn't even realize it himself.
