Phoenix:
The house was quiet.
Ryder was in the shower, his low hum of some rock ballad echoing faintly through the bathroom door. Steam rolled out into the hallway. The scent of his cologne—woodsy and warm—still clung to my hoodie, the one I’d stolen from his closet and refused to return. Outside the window, the street was hushed. That heavy, peaceful kind of silence that only came late at night when the world was catching its breath.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen, holding and empty glass of whiskey like a prize. Everything about today felt like a dream I wasn’t sure I was ready for. And maybe that was the point—I didn’t have to be ready. I just had to want it.
And I did.
God, I did.
I opened my sketchbook, flipping past pages of flame patterns, chrome concepts, and half-baked b
