The next morning came with that strange stillness that follows a storm. Amara barely slept; her mind kept circling back to Leo’s words, to the heat of his breath when he told her not to cry, to the way his heartbeat had drowned out the silence between them. She’d felt safe in that moment—safe and terrified all at once.
But the morning sun didn’t care about her sleepless night. It streamed through the curtains like nothing had happened, painting the room gold and pretending her heart wasn’t still in pieces.
She forced herself out of bed, washed up, and got dressed. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale and unsure, but she managed to pull her hair back and pin on that neutral, “I’m fine” expression she’d practiced over the years. She didn’t want pity. She wanted peace.
Downstairs, the
