The warmth from that night didn’t last.
It never did.
Sheila woke up to an empty bed and the faint smell of Atticus’s cologne lingering on the pillow beside her. For a moment, she simply stared at the ceiling, her mind foggy with sleep and quiet hope. The previous night replayed in fragments — his arms around her, his steady heartbeat, the rare gentleness in his voice.
It had felt safe.
Too safe.
She reached her hand across the bed, her fingers brushing over the cold sheets where he had been. The emptiness hit her chest instantly, sharp and sudden, like stepping into freezing water without warning.
“He probably just left early,” she whispered to herself, forcing logic into a space already filling with dread.
She sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket around herself as she glanced towar
