There was something criminal about a man being that smart, that skilled, and still looking like that.

Degel stood in the library, half-dressed—white shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, glasses balanced delicately on his nose as he studied a scroll written in a language long forgotten. The soft glow of lamplight flickered against the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet strength in his frame. You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t staring. (You were.)

“How long have you been watching?” he asked without looking up.

“Long enough to ask if it’s legal to be this intelligent and have that body.”

He finally glanced at you, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t aware intelligence came with a dress code.”

“It doesn’t,” you muttered, stepping closer. “But the combination? Deadly.”

Degel set the scroll aside and turned toward you, slow and composed. “You’re unusually distracted tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” you said, lightly brushing your fingers against his arm. “You talk about restoring ancient civilizations and then cook dinner like a five-star chef. And your back—Degel, your back—”

“I see,” he said, amused now. “You’re flustered.”

You opened your mouth to deny it—but then he stepped into your space, one hand gently cupping your chin, the other slipping around your waist. His voice dropped.

“Then allow me to fix that.”

He kissed you—cool, controlled, and utterly perfect. And when he pulled back, he looked smug, as if to say I told you so.

Smart. Skillful. Stunning.

Degel wasn’t just a man. He was a walking impossibility—and yours.