ZEE.
I woke up the next morning on Denver’s bed—and alone.
His side of the bed was cold.
The house was too quiet. No footsteps, no music humming low in the background, no sound of water running. He wasn’t here.
A small ache tugged at my chest.
I sat up slowly, his oversized jacket still wrapped around me like a second skin. His scent lingered—leather, smoke, and something darkly comforting. It felt like an embrace, even in his absence.
Memories from last night came back like fragments of a dream. The way he touched me like I was breakable and his to break. He held me afterward like he knew I needed to be pieced back together. I never wanted that feeling to end.
Then I noticed the water bottle and painkillers on the nightstand. A note was tucked beside it, scrawled in his rough, slan
