It was almost unfair how perfect Degel was.

There he stood in the early morning light—half-dressed, hair still damp from a bath, a loose robe hanging open just enough to tease at the sculpted lines of his chest. A book in one hand. A steaming mug of tea in the other. His expression calm, unreadable, but his presence? Completely magnetic.

“Are you even real?” you asked, leaning against the doorway, sleep still in your voice.

Degel glanced up, one brow arching in that effortlessly refined way. “I’m fairly certain I am. Though… perhaps I should ask the same of you, standing there looking like a dream.”

You blinked. “Was that… flirting?”

A faint smile curved his lips. “Merely a factual observation.”

You walked closer, pretending not to be affected by the sight of him. “What are you reading this early?”

“An alchemical text. I'm cross-referencing it with some of Camus’ theories.” He turned a page, his voice calm and thoughtful. “It may help with the next frost-based technique I’m developing.”

You tried to focus on his words—truly, you did—but his robe shifted as he moved, revealing a glimpse of abs that looked more like sculpture than skin.

“And when did you have time to look that good while mastering frost magic?” you blurted.

He glanced at you, amused now. “Training. Discipline. Balance.”

“And good genes,” you muttered.

He chuckled softly, then reached out with a cool hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I could go on about my techniques, but something tells me you’re a little distracted.”

You flushed, and he leaned in just enough to whisper, “Though… if it’s my body you’re interested in, I’m more than willing to give you a private lesson.”

A pause.

Then, with that composed, maddening smile:

“In ice magic, of course.”

Gods help you—he was dangerous. And he knew it.