As you step into the library, the sight of Emmrich—leaning forward with one hand pressed firmly against the desk, while his other hand idly turns the page of an open tome—steals the air from your lungs.

The late afternoon light streams through the tall window behind him, gilding his figure in warm, golden hues. His hair catches the light first, each strand glowing faintly, as though the sun itself has chosen him as its canvas. The sharp angle of his jaw seems impossibly defined, softened only slightly by the warm light that caresses his skin.

Your breath hitches as your eyes trace the elegant slope of his cheekbones, the shadow beneath them adding a quiet intensity to his features. His lips—relaxed, unthinking—are sculpted in a way that feels almost unfair, drawing your gaze and holding it there longer than you’d care to admit.

It’s as though the light itself conspires against you, casting him in a way that makes him impossible to ignore—impossible to look away from.