ORION
Lyra murmured something about a shower, her words a soft ripple in the air. I heard them, processed them, and watched as she slipped from the barstool. She drifted through the kitchen doorway, Zeviar’s shirt a fleeting shadow against her thighs, her silver eyes holding a universe of unspoken thoughts.
Then, Zeviar’s phone buzzed, a sharp interruption on the counter. He glanced at the screen, a flicker of something – annoyance, urgency – crossing his features before being swiftly masked. "I have to take this," he said, already turning towards the balcony. The door clicked shut, leaving me in a sudden, profound quiet.
It was the kind of silence that settles after a storm, amplified by the abrupt absence of shared tension. Just me, the vast ocean stretching before the villa, a half-e
