The door creaks softly as you step inside your bedroom. The evening air heavy with warmth and peaceful quiet. Mydei is already there, reclined against the headboard and sprawled lazily across the mattress like a lion at rest. He’s half-draped in ivory sheets, the soft linen twisted at his hips, low enough to leave far too little to the imagination. He doesn’t move to cover himself. He has no reason to. One strong arm drapes over the edge of the headboard, fingers curled loosely like he’s waiting for something.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes flick toward you. The moonlight spills through the half-open curtain, catching the ridges of old scars and rippling muscles.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low and smooth. He knows exactly what he’s doing, lying there wrapped in nothing but soft linen.