Sunday
I woke up in a room that wasn’t mine. White walls. Unused bed. The particular quality of light through blinds in a building that faced west — expensive, even the morning felt colder here. Six forty-eight AM. My body still woke up at forty-third-floor time. I lay still, listening. The flat wasn’t silent. There was movement in the kitchen — a pan, the sound of a drawer opening too forcefully. Lucian Voss was cooking. Or attempting to. I got up, pulled on the oversized jumper I’d packed, and walked barefoot toward the sound. He was standing at the stove in a grey t-shirt and dark trousers, barefoot, staring at a pan like it had personally offended him. Eggs. A recipe open on his phone. The shell of an egg cracked unevenly on the counter. He looked… wrong. Out of place. Like a predator
- Writer
