I looked up toward his study window upstairs—habit, stupid habit—and it was closed.
Not cracked like he usually left it, letting in that little breeze he claimed helped him think.
Just shut.
Dark glass staring back like it didn’t want to see me either.
I sighed—long, defeated—and pushed the front door open.
The house smelled like nothing.
No coffee.
No stir-fry.
Just clean, expensive air and the faint trace of his cologne that always lingered in the corners whether he was here or not.
“I’ll go to my room,” I muttered to the empty foyer, kicking my shoes off so hard one bounced against the wall.
“Drink some water.
Crash out.
Done.”
I started climbing the stairs—slow, dragging, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Halfway up, the study door opened.
H
