(R-18 Mature Scenes)
The celebration had faded into distant music by the time Isolde reached her chamber.
The corridors were quieter now. The palace seemed to exhale after the day's spectacle.
Inside, the room had been prepared.
Low lamps glowed amber against ivory walls. Fresh white petals were scattered across the floor near the bed, not excessively, not theatrically — just enough to soften the air. The curtains were drawn. The world outside felt far away.
Raphael stood near the window when she entered.
He had removed his formal coat. The deep navy fabric rested over a chair. He wore a simpler white shirt now, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He did not pace.
He did not fidget.
He stood still, as though anchoring himself.
When the door closed behind her, he turned.
For a moment, neither spoke.
She was no longer on a dais.
No longer surrounded by court.
She was simply Isolde.
He stepped forward — but stopped at a respectful distance.
"May I?" he asked quietly.
