Cold.
Heavy with four years of silence.
My initials are written on the front in handwriting I could recognise blindfolded.
My throat closes.
No.
No, this isn’t—I turn toward Noah automatically, as if he’ll somehow know what to do, or be able to fix the way the room suddenly feels wrong—but he’s dead asleep, sprawled half onmy pillow, arm reaching out like he’s searching for me even in dreams.
He doesn’t sense anything.
But I do.
Something in the air.
Something in the walls.
Something on my skin.
I slip out of bed with the kind of care people use when they’re running from a sleeping animal that could wake vicious. My bare feet touch the cold hardwood floor, and a shiver travels up my legs.
The house is too big at night.
Too still.
Noah likes minimalism—clean lines, pale wood, cold marble, black frames, no clutter.
Sterile.
Perfect.
A home designed to never look lived in.
The en suite is the worst of it—floor-to-ceiling white marble veined with silver, chrome fixtures, a rainfall shower that looks like it belongs in a magazine, not a real life.
I slip inside and quietly close the door, turning the lock with a click that echoes in the hollow space.
I flip on the vanity lights.
The brightness hits me hard—exposing swollen eyes, damp lashes, a trembling mouth.
I look like someone who’s been held underwater.
I grip the edge of the vanity with one hand, the letter clutched in the other, and force myself to breathe evenly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The bathroom smells faintly of Noah’s cologne—clean citrus, cedar, something sharp. He likes order. Routine. Predictability.
Everything in here is laid out exactly the way he wants it:
