Thorne POV
Roman is saying something. Probably important, likely urgent.
But I'm not listening.
From the tall windows of my office, the sun filters in gently, casting gold across the polished floors and warming the wood panels of the room. The scent of parchment and the distant sea blends faintly in the air. But all of that blurs, fades into background noise, because what has my attention is outside.
My beloved star is walking in the garden.
Noelle's figure glides over the path as if he owns the sunlight. The wind tosses his dark hair gently over his shoulders, and in his arms, Mirelle clings to him with sleepy grace. The two of them, bathed in gold, framed by trees and blooms, look like a vision from some forgotten myth. I swear the grass grows greener with every step Noelle takes. Flowers open just to see him pass.
He's so perfect it aches.
"Ahem," Roman grunts pointedly.
I don't look away. Not yet.
