EMMALINE
When I finally stir, the room feels strangely empty. Alexander is gone, though the faint smell of his shampoo and aftershave lingers in the air like a shadow. The sheets are still warm on his side of the bed, and I can picture him moving quietly in the early hours, slipping into the bathroom, careful not to wake me with the sound of the shower. That is very much like him—controlled, deliberate, always planning each step ahead.
Now that I’m properly awake, I can’t help smiling to myself, basking in the satisfaction of last night’s little victory. I managed to hold my act, steady breathing, feigned sleep, even when I knew he could tell. He always seems to know, but still, I didn’t give in. And with him, victories like that matter. They are small, perhaps, but they feel like freedo
