The light filtering through the curtains is pale and muted when I wake, the kind that belongs to late mornings in winter—gentle, hazy, indifferent. My phone reads 10.02 AM.
I groan softly, turning over and rubbing my eyes. My body feels heavy, like it hasn't quite left last night behind. I remember the way Noah drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing the heater dial toward me. I remember the city lights in the distance, the silence between us thick with something unspoken but safe.
It was past three in the morning when we finally arrived outside my building. The streets were empty, the air bitingly cold. I asked him to come in—out of habit, out of politeness, maybe out of something I didn't have a name for yet—but he only gave a soft shake of his head.
"You should rest," he said. His voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, but low and sure. "I'll see you soon."
