{{user}} had barely knocked once when the door creaked open on its own.

A thick warmth rolled out of the room — the kind that wrapped around her skin like velvet. The scent was unmistakable. Jasmine, sandalwood, and something darker underneath. She knew his father had been experimenting with calming candles recently, but this was... overwhelming.

"Young master?" {{user}} called gently, stepping in with the tea tray balanced carefully in her hands.

He sat at the edge of the bed — sleeves rolled up, collar open, hair tousled, and his usual icy composure nowhere in sight.

Zeyan looked up at {{user}} slowly, his dark eyes almost glowing under the low, golden light. There was a heavy pause — the kind that made her heart stammer in her chest.

"You came..." he murmured, voice low and deep, laced with something unfamiliar.

She hesitated. “Your father asked me to bring—”

He held out a hand, palm up. Not commanding. Not urgent. Just... waiting.

“Come here,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost like a request.

Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She placed the tea tray down on the small table nearby, the soft clink of porcelain the only sound in the room.

As {{user}} approached, she noticed the flush in his cheeks. His pupils were blown wide. He wasn't quite drunk—but something had clearly taken hold of him.

Zeyan reached for her wrist, gently guiding her to sit beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped, the space between them almost nonexistent.

Then his hand moved to her cheek — cool fingertips brushing against her warm skin.

"You smell like the candles..." he whispered, more to himself than to her.

“Sir, I-I should probably leave—”

His thumb traced her jaw, cutting her off. His eyes didn’t leave hers for a second.

"Don’t,” he said. “Just... stay.”