Malakar's POV.
I open my eyes slowly, reluctantly. Early morning light streams through the open curtains, casting a soft, golden hue across the room. The first thing I become aware of is Hope standing in front of the dresser, holding a blue shirt up to the light. She considers it for a moment, then tosses it over her shoulder. The same fate befalls a red one, a white one, and a black one — until she finally settles on a pale green shirt.
She pulls it over her head, smoothing the fabric before running her fingers through her hair — attempting, with little success, to tame the wild waves. I watch her, quietly, captivated by how effortlessly beautiful she is, even in these small, mundane moments.
“Good morning,” I drawl, my voice still thick with sleep.
She glances at me in the mirror, a
