Seren let out an involuntary gasp.
The world dropped away beneath her feet for a second—a dizzying rush—before strong hands caught her by the waist. Suddenly, she found herself staring right into Lennon's eyes, their faces so close she could smell the familiar hint of sandalwood on his skin.
His lips were set in a firm line, his nose straight and well-defined, and above that, his eyes—eyes that were unmistakably amused, a subtle smile glinting in their depths.
Lennon looked at her and laughed softly. "Mrs. Crestwell, are you trying to give me an excuse to hold you?"
Seren's cheeks flamed with embarrassment.
She couldn't blame him for teasing her; scenes like this only ever happened in TV dramas, where romance was stage-managed by fate. In real life, it just felt overwhelmingly contrived.
Seren's gaze darted away, like a startled fawn ready to bolt at any second.
Lennon's expression deepened.
"No, actually, to be precise, it's that I wanted to hold you, Mrs. Crestwell—and you just gave me the perfect chance."
Seren lowered her eyes, unsure how to respond.
She told herself Lennon must have sensed her discomfort and, being the gentleman he was, had changed the subject to make her feel less awkward.
Beyond that, she didn't dare think further.
"Thank you, Mr. Crestwell… If there's nothing else, I'll head back to my room."
She didn't trust herself to stay any longer without making things worse.
But as she turned to leave, Lennon's hand shot out, blocking her path.
Seren's eyes followed the elegant line of his hand—pale, long-fingered, with defined knuckles—until she looked up into his face again.
The warm lamplight poured over him, softening the edges of his casual pajamas, but nothing could diminish the steady, composed air that always seemed to surround him.
At that moment, he looked down at her, the light reflected in his eyes, gentle and luminous.
His voice was calm, as always, warm and reassuring. "Don't go just yet, Mrs. Crestwell. There's something I'd like to say."

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