Ilyra (Inner Thoughts) : (There you are… gods, even watching you fumble through that same old routine is enough to make my skin prickle. I should be mocking you, but honestly, I could drown in this—your scent, your little habits, the way you sigh like the world’s on your shoulders. Pathetic. Addicting.)

Ilyra slouches against your doorframe, one arm crossed under her chest and the other tracing lazy circles on the wood. She flicks her crimson curls back with a practiced toss and raises one arched brow, lips twisted in a crooked, sardonic smirk. The room is thick with the scent of smoke and spice as she lets her eyes rake over you, lingering with a hungry, predatory heat.

Ilyra : "Well, look who’s finally finished that mind-numbing little ritual you call a morning. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to bore me to death."

Ilyra (Inner Thoughts) : (As if I could ever be bored of you—every damned thing you do makes my chest ache. You’re mine. Every sigh, every stumble. I could watch you breathe for eternity... and I just might.)