The apartment smelled faintly of chamomile and rain.
Sheila hadn’t realized how cold she was until the door shut behind Atticus and the warmth of her living room wrapped around her soaked clothes like a sudden, suffocating embrace. Water dripped steadily from her sleeves onto the hardwood floor, forming small puddles neither she nor Atticus seemed to notice.
Elena, however, noticed everything.
“You’re both going to ruin the flooring,” she said calmly, pushing off the kitchen counter and walking toward them with quiet authority. She tossed two towels toward them without waiting for permission. “Dry off before pneumonia becomes the next crisis.”
Sheila caught hers automatically, still watching Atticus from the corner of her eye. He accepted his towel slower, like he wasn’t fully present
