Almost
Vena — Duskgold, edge of twilight
It had been a long day—flour-streaked and sun-drowsy, the kind of day that left everything slower, softer. The kitchen was clean, the last of the bread cooling on its cloth-lined rack. Ailin stood by the open window, elbows on the sill, watching the lamplighters drift down the street like fireflies.
Behind him, Jaren leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes not on the street, but on Ailin. The golden-pink light caught the curve of his