Ragon.
My stomach drops like I stepped off a curb I didn't see. Not arousal. Not comfort.
Cold.
A faint nausea curls at the back of my throat.
My fingers tighten, then loosen, like my body realizes it doesn't want to hold it.
Arden watches my face. "How is it?"
"Bad," I whisper.
"Bad like unsafe?"
I nod.
He extends his hand—not taking, just offering. I hand it over and he sets it aside without comment.
He slides the second sleeve toward me.
I open it.
Citrus, clean soap, and vanilla.
Drake.
My chest tightens. There's a flicker—an old ache, a memory of laughter, of a hand at my elbow, of him trying to make sharp edges softer.
Then vanilla threads through it and the ache twists bitter.
The scent feels split. Like Drake is divided and I'm holding the wrong half.
My body doesn't relax. It just stiffens.
"Confusing?" Arden guesses.
I nod. "Confusing."
He takes it back and sets it aside.
The third sleeve waits.
I open it.
Tea and clean linen. A hint of cedar.
Eli.
Warmth tries to rise—real warmth—memory of him reading beside me, voice soft, hand brushing my hair.
Then it collapses under guilt sharp enough to sting behind my eyes.
Because Eli tried.
And he still held me down.
My fingers shake slightly.
