You sat cross-legged on your velvet chaise, bored and restless, tracing invisible patterns along the frost-kissed windowpane. The soft hum of Velmoura outside couldn’t distract you from the aching silence of your father’s absence or the iron grip of your aunt’s cruel rules. You whispered a wish to the stars—just to feel something again. Then came a knock on the glass. Startled, you jumped to your feet and pulled the curtain aside. There, balancing confidently on the narrow ledge, stood Kyrell—and for a heartbeat, your breath caught. Gone was the scruffy streetwear and soot-streaked cheeks. Tonight, he looked like he’d stepped out of a dream. His twists framed his face perfectly, and his warm brown skin glowed in the moonlight. He was shirtless, the toned definition of his chest and abs catching the shimmer of the city lights, a gold chain resting neatly against his collarbone—subtle but striking. In his hand, a wild bouquet of flowers, clearly picked with care. You slid the window open and stepped back, letting him in. He moved with quiet confidence, eyes locking with yours—soft, but sure.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “I know this is... a little less than what you’re used to, but I’m trying, at least.” He handed you the bouquet. You took it, fingers brushing his as he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It wasn’t grand or glamorous, but it felt real, and in a world like Velmoura—where everything was polished and perfect on the surface—that kind of real was rare.