The morning sun in the mountain villa was no longer a cold intruder; it was a promise. Layla stood on the balcony, watching the mist recede from the valley below. For the first time in months, her chest didn't feel tight with the weight of a debt. She was wearing one of Adam’s white shirts, the oversized fabric a warm reminder of the man who was currently sleeping soundly in the room behind her—a man who had finally stopped fighting his own ghosts.
A soft footfall sounded on the wooden floor. Adam wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. He smelled of sea salt and expensive soap, a scent that had become her sanctuary.
"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice husky with sleep. "I thought we agreed: no thinking until after the first cup of cof
