Jackson’s P.O.V.
The first thing I registered was pain. The kind that starts somewhere deep behind your eyes and pulses outward like an aggressive drum solo in your skull.
“Ugh,” I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face. My mouth tasted like a distillery floor and regret.
The second thing I registered was the smell of coffee.
And then came the third—Eluna’s laugh.
Soft.
Low.
Familiar in the most comforting way.
I peeked out from under the pillow and squinted at the light filtering in through the window. And there she was. Sitting at the little table by the window, legs crossed beneath her, hair a little messy in the best way, and—oh God—she was wearing my flannel again.
And somehow, that made everything hurt a little less.
I didn't say anything right away. I just watched her,
