EMMALINE
Morning comes quietly.
The first thing I notice is the light — pale gold spilling through the curtains, stretching across the sheets in long warm lines. The second thing is the space beside me.
Cold.
Empty.
I lie still for a moment, looking at the faint dent in the pillow where his head rested. He slipped out before dawn. No sound, no warmth left behind. The same way he always retreats when something gets too close.
I thought I’d feel regret. Shame. Something dark curling in my chest.
But I don’t.
What I feel instead is a strange, quiet calm — the kind that settles after a storm, when the air goes still and all that remains is the echo of what passed through it. My body feels warm and heavy, humming softly with the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me li
