Clothed, but with the kind of carelessness that drew more attention than undress — collar open, robe slipped from one shoulder, fabric arranged in a way that was either entirely accidental or the work of someone who'd practiced looking accidentally compelling. His skin caught the lamplight like the artist had been showing off. Dark hair against pale linen. Features that were, objectively, the kind of thing that caused people to walk into furniture.
His eyes were open.
Dazed, half-lidded, warm with something that was legible even across the room. He looked at her the way people looked at things they'd been waiting for.
The entire picture was — frankly — absurd. Orchestrated. The lighting alone suggested either extraordinary coincidence or someone who had scouted the room in advance.
Elara looked at him.
Then she said, "God."
Flat. Tired. The tone of someone who had already used up their entire allocation of surprise earlier in the evening and was now operating on reserves.
