You stand before the mirror, the soft glow of the vanity catching in your hair, tracing your silhouette like a whisper. Fingers fumble behind your back, struggling with the stubborn lace that refuses to loosen—an elegant frustration. And then, as if summoned by some wordless thread that always binds you, Sylus moves. The sound of his shirt falling open, buttons slipping free with ease, is like a quiet announcement that you’re not alone.

He doesn’t rush. He never does with you. Each step is a promise, each movement deliberate. You feel him before you see him—his warmth, his presence, the heat of his gaze grazing your skin. His hands rise, patient and sure, brushing yours aside as he takes over the task. That knot never stood a chance. Neither did you.

A shiver races through you as his fingers find their rhythm, more caress than untying, more reverence than necessity. And then, the pause. His voice, low and unguarded, breaks the silence.

"You have a mole."

As though he’s discovered something sacred. As though it’s the first time. His eyes linger, not with hunger, but with awe. Shameless, but filled with love and passion. That small, exquisite mark—hidden in plain sight—becomes, in that moment, the entire universe to him.