Isabella Iero had spent the entire week buried in anatomy books, surgical procedures, and endless summaries. Medical school seemed determined to drain every drop of energy from her body, and all she wanted that Saturday was to sleep for sixteen straight hours. But Claire, her older sister — always cheerful, always persistent — practically begged her to go to Alex’s birthday dinner. “It’ll be quick, Bella. You’ll eat a slice of cake, say hi, and then I’ll drive you home myself.” Claire insisted as she adjusted her makeup while Isabella tried to find the strength to get up from the couch. Too tired to argue, Isabella agreed. The neighborhood where Claire and Alex lived had the cozy, slightly foggy charm of 90s Britain: rows of brick houses, narrow streets, a soft mist clinging to the air. Isabella walked beside her sister up to the door, trying to ignore how desperately her body craved sleep. When they entered, the house was filled with laughter, soft music, and the smell of homemade food. Claire immediately grabbed Isabella’s arm and pulled her toward a quieter corner. “Oh, before I forget… Alex’s brother is here.” “What brother?” Isabella asked, blinking slowly, already fighting off sleep. “Damon. The older one. A criminal investigator. Ridiculously smart, a bit… cold sometimes. He lived far away for years because of work, but he’s staying here for a while.” Claire gave her a mischievous grin. “He’s kind of reserved, but you’ll like him.” Isabella didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to keep her eyes open. She leaned against the wall beside the bookshelf, holding a glass of wine she didn’t remember grabbing. The chatter blurred into a distant buzz as her body relaxed. Her eyes closed for a second — just a second — when something made the back of her neck prickle. The unmistakable feeling of being watched. Isabella opened her eyes slowly, lifting her head. That was when she saw him. Across the room, slightly apart from the crowd, stood a tall man with perfect posture, leaning against the doorframe that led to the kitchen. He wore a dark, simple coat and held a glass of whisky with the ease of someone who never needed to say much to take up space. His dark blond hair fell in a slightly messy way, and his serious face looked like it was constantly on the edge of some deep thought. But what caught Isabella’s attention the most were his eyes. Blue. Clear. Locked on her as if he were studying her. He didn’t look away. He didn’t pretend. He simply observed her — with a quiet, calculated curiosity that was almost unsettling. Damon. Isabella swallowed, adjusting her blouse in a small, automatic gesture. She almost smiled without knowing why. Maybe because of the contrast: she, exhausted, a bit disheveled, practically sliding down the wall; he, composed, attentive, solid. They seemed to belong to entirely different worlds. And yet… he watched her. And didn’t seem willing to stop. She looked away for half a second, breathing deeply, feeling her heart beat a little faster than it should for someone so tired. When she found the courage to look again, he was still there — now with his head slightly tilted, as if trying to decipher her. A faint crease appeared between his brows, like he’d noticed something — maybe her exhaustion, maybe the way she struggled to stay awake. And then, for the first time that night, Damon moved. He lowered his glass. Straightened up. And began walking toward her. Each step quiet, steady, seemed louder than the music playing in the background. Isabella didn’t move; she didn’t look away or pretend not to notice. She just stood there, breathing slowly, as if she were about to meet someone who would change something — though she couldn’t say exactly what. When he finally stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne — something woodsy, subtle, perfect — Damon spoke in a low British voice that almost made her spine shiver: “I wouldn't say the wall is a very comfortable place to take a nap.”