Bound by the moon
The back of his head bore a slight flattening—a quiet reminder of where it had rested—and his fringe dipped lazily over one brow, giving him a boyish, vulnerable charm.
He looked like a secret kept between night and morning, peaceful and beautiful in a way that made my chest tighten. This boy would be the death of me.
“Good morning, my king,” he said, voice husky from sleep.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I replied, a soft smile curling my lips.
“Can you stop with the ‘my king’ thing, please? It does… things to my brain. Unless you want to limp out of this bed and postpone all plans for today,”
Bab Populer