The gentle trickle of water from the bathtub felt soothing, as if it could muffle the echo of this morning’s turmoil. Nayla lay submerged in a sea of frothy bubbles, the scent of soap lingering on her damp skin. A sheer curtain at the window blocked out the daylight, softly concealing a wound that bled only in her heart.
The bathroom door opened. Damian stood in the threshold. His face was clean, his appearance neatly restored, yet his eyes still harbored an unquenchable spark.
“I have to go,” he finally said.
Nayla kept her eyes closed, fingers pinching a corner of soap until suds tumbled to the floor. “Of course. Go.”
Damian didn’t move. His body was taut, drawn like a bowstring ready to snap. His fists clenched at his sides, as if holding back the urge to move, to pull Nayla out of
