The door opened with a soft creak, and Zafira stepped out. Trafalgar straightened unconsciously, adjusting the dark noble attire he always wore. His long hair was tied low in a neat ponytail, the strands catching the torchlight of the dormitory hall.
For a moment, his eyes simply took her in. Zafira's outfit was nothing overly extravagant, but it suited her perfectly—light fabric hugging her form, subtle patterns marking her Zar'khael lineage. The contrast of her light purple hair against her pale skin and curved black horns gave her the kind of presence that turned heads without trying.
And, despite himself, Trafalgar's gaze flickered for a second lower than it should have. Zafira's chest was… generous, more so than he remembered, and the cut of her outfit emphasized it. His eyes snapped back up immediately, his expression as flat as ever.
Zafira noticed. But instead of calling him out, her lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile. To her, the slip was its own compliment.
