A gasp rips out of me before I’m even fully conscious—sharp, desperate, wet—and my hands fly to my mouth because the sound feels too loud, too raw for the dark bedroom.
My chest heaves.
My throat aches.
Tears spill before I understand I’m crying.
Noah doesn’t stir.
Of course he doesn’t.
He sleeps like stone—heavy, unmoving, oblivious to the way I fold in on myself beside him.
I press my forehead into my palms, trying to breathe, trying to piece together the dream that ripped me awake, but it dissolves like smoke… only the feeling remains.
Not fear.
Not grief.
Presence.
Someone in the room.
Someone watching.
Someone close enough that I can still feel the ghost of breath against my skin.
I choke on a shaky inhale and force myself to sit up, pushing the duvet down as quietly as I can. My body feels wrong—too hot, too tight, too aware of every sound in the house.
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the frost-blue glow of the security panel near the door. Noah insisted on the system—full perimeter sensors, motion alarms, cameras feeding to his phone. Safety layered over safety.
And yet I’ve never felt more exposed.
I reach blindly for the glass of water on my nightstand, fingers trembling—and freeze.
There’s something sitting beside the glass.
Folded.
White.
Out of place.
It takes my brain a full three seconds to understand what I’m looking at.
A letter.
My breath stutters.
Noah didn’t put that there.
I didn’t put that there.
My stomach drops so fast I feel nauseous.
Very slowly, as if I’m handling something venomous, I pick it up between shaking fingers.
It’s crisp.
