We protect.
We endure.
And we do not let go.
Ever.
I wake up in a bed that costs less than his coffee maker.
That's the first coherent thought my brain manages to produce as pale morning light filters through my apartment's single grimy window, casting weak shadows across sheets I bought on clearance three years ago. The fabric is pilled. The mattress sags in the middle. The radiator clanks uselessly in the corner, doing absolutely nothing to combat the draft seeping through the window frame.
I'm freezing.
And my body is still humming.
Not from cold. From him. From the way his skin felt under my hands when it shifted from stone to molten warmth. From the way his amber veins flared incandescent gold when our eyes locked. From the way something ancient and terrifying clicked into place between us like a lock I didn't know existed.
I sit up slowly, pulling the thin blanket around my shoulders.
My apartment looks exactly the same as it did yesterday. Cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. Cracked linoleum in the kitchenette. The single bent fork sitting in the dish rack because I can't afford to replace the set. Everything is familiar. Everything is mine.
Except I don't feel like I belong here anymore.
I feel like I left something behind in that massage suite. Something fundamental. Something I can't get back.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I grab it, half-expecting a text from Cyprian—some formal, zero-contractions message about scheduling or payment processing or whatever corporate excuse he'd use to check on me.
It's not him.
It's my bank app, showing the deposit from last night's session.
Five hundred dollars.
I stare at the number.
Then I set the phone down and press my palms against my eyes.
Because here's the thing I can't stop thinking about: Did I want what happened last night? Or did my biology want it for me?
The mate-bond. The neurological synchronization. The way his body recognized mine on some primal, ancient level that bypassed conscious thought entirely.
How do I know if I'm making a choice, or if I'm just responding to some biological imperative that's hijacking my autonomic nervous system?
How do I know if this is real?
I grab my phone again and pull up Audrey's contact before I can second-guess myself.
She answers on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. "It's six in the morning. This better be an emergency."
"I think I'm having an existential crisis."
Silence.
Then: "About the gargoyle?"
"Yes."
