Soft sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, painting the bedroom in muted gold. The air carried salt and frangipani, sweet and clean.
Kane's consciousness surfaced slowly, fragments assembling themselves into coherent thought.
Glowing waves. Cyrus's promise. The beach tilting sideways beneath his feet.
His eyes opened.
White ceiling. Silk sheets. The distant murmur of surf against rocks.
Kane turned his head.
Cyrus sat on the edge of the bed, perfectly still, a ceramic mug cradled in both hands. Steam curled from the coffee, untouched.
Dark circles shadowed those crimson eyes. Tension pulled at the corners of Cyrus's mouth, carving lines into his forehead that hadn't been there yesterday.
His shirt—usually pristine—was wrinkled, collar askew, and top two buttons undone.
Like he'd been sitting there for hours.
Maybe all night.
"You look terrible," Kane rasped.
Cyrus's gaze snapped to his face.
