“It’s not a date,” Zara said quickly. Too quickly.
Liora’s grin widened. “Ohhh, so it is for someone.”
Zara slipped the dress on. “It’s not. And even if it were, it’s none of your business.”
“Hmm,” Liora mused, tapping her chin. “Are you already on the apps here? Thirsty much?”
Zara groaned. “Get out of my room.”
But her cheeks warmed, betraying her completely.
“You know I’ll figure it out,” Liora teased, stretching out like a satisfied cat.
Zara narrowed her eyes.
“We’ll figure it out,” Liora corrected with a wicked grin.
Zara lifted the hanger, ready to launch it at her sister’s head, but Liora threw her hands up.
“Okay, okay, settle down!” she laughed. “I actually came to tell you that Elian made breakfast.”
Zara’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Liora said, pushing herself upright.
Zara blinked. Their brother cooking? In the morning? Voluntarily?
“He can cook,” she conceded. “Breakfast only.”
“That’s right, he can. Which means maybe we’ll start the day off right.”
Zara lowered the hanger, her annoyance dissolving a little. A home-cooked breakfast did sound good.
And maybe, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, maybe looking nice was fine too. For herself.
Not for any particular Drakkon.
Definitely not.
Liora popped up from the bed and darted to Zara’s vanity, rifling through the scattered makeup until she found a deep burgundy lipstick. She uncapped it with a flourish and applied it in quick, confident swipes.
“Don’t take too long,” she said, smacking her lips. “You’re way too pretty to be dressing up for a guy.”
“Ugh,” Zara groaned, snatching the lipstick out of her hand. “Don’t start.”
Liora just sauntered toward the door, unbothered. She snagged a denim jacket hanging from a chair on her way out, tossing Zara a wink before disappearing down the hall.
Zara shook her head as she put on a pair of ankle boots. Her siblings were far too comfortable commenting on her life, always had been, always would be. That was the curse of being triplets. No privacy, ever.
She chose a pinkish lip gloss, something soft and safe, and tossed it into her bag before heading toward the kitchen.
The moment she stepped inside, a low whistle cut through the room. Elian stood at the counter, his tousled brown hair brushing just beneath his ears and his warm olive skin catching the morning light. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, covered in paint spatters, like all his clothes, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal the swirling tattoos on his forearms. She’d always loved his tattoos; they were as artistic and expressive as he was.
“You ate with that outfit,” Elian said, eyebrows lifting meaningfully.
Zara groaned and shot Liora a murderous look. Liora only grinned, clearly proud of herself.
“Speaking of,” Zara said, eager to redirect, “what’s this breakfast you supposedly made?”
