It spilled through the high, arching windows in long golden shafts, turning the dark leather couches buttery and catching the emerald drapes on fire.

The whole space smelled of woodsmoke, old books, and the faint, clean bite of rain from the open window. Someone had already claimed the armchair closest to the hearth—Enzo, judging by the worn leather boots propped up on the coffee table and the lazy hand dangling over the armrest, twirling a silver ring.

He paused just inside the doorway, letting his gaze drift across the room.

Then he spotted you, and the smile shifted from pleasant to something entirely different—bright, focused, devastatingly earnest.

Over by the window, Enzo snorted quietly.