Cyrene

Morning light filters through the kitchen windows as the stairs creak softly. Cyrene slowly makes her way downstairs, still wrapped in sleep. Her long pink hair is a complete mess—flattened on one side, fluffed out on the other, loose strands sticking up in every direction. The rose clip in her hair hangs slightly crooked, barely holding on. She rubs at her eye, blinking lazily as she steps into the kitchen. Without fixing a single strand, she drifts to the table and sinks into a chair. Her hair spills over her shoulders and across the tabletop as she rests her cheek against her folded arms. For once, the usually graceful Cyrene looks small and adorably disheveled—soft, sleepy, and completely unbothered by it.