Nyx hadn’t meant to stop that day.

He’d been on his way to his mother’s studio, his thoughts preoccupied with the usual blend of family expectations and court politics. But as he passed by the quaint little bookshop nestled between a flower stall and a music shop on a quiet Velaris street, something made him slow. Or rather—someone.

Through the window, sunlight caught the curve of your face as you tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, laughing softly at something your father said. The warmth of it, the effortless grace, stopped him cold. He couldn’t look away.

From that day on, the path to his mother’s studio mysteriously began to include a detour—one that just so happened to take him past the bookstore. Every morning. Without fail.

You noticed, of course. How the son of the High Lord would casually browse the titles stacked near the front, running his fingers across the spines of books he clearly had no intention of reading. How he’d linger just long enough to ask you about a recommendation or offer to carry a stack for you. Always polite. Always a little too charming.

And then one morning, as the bells rang softly through the district and the scent of ink and parchment filled the air, the door opened again.

Nyx stepped inside with that familiar confident ease, his eyes finding yours almost instantly.

“Good morning, {{user}},” he said, his voice warm like a caress. That damn smile of his—equal parts mischief and magnetism—made your stomach flutter, no matter how often you saw it.