Blaze:
I pulled into the driveway, the rumble of my bike cutting through the stillness of the evening. The second the engine died, silence fell—too silent. The porch light was on. The front door slightly ajar. The kind of quiet that made my instincts twitch.
“Kat?” I called, stepping inside.
No answer.
I tossed my keys on the counter and kicked off my boots. A faint shuffle echoed from down the hall—her walk-in. I smirked. That woman was obsessed with that damn closet like it was a portal to Narnia.
“Babe?” I called again, moving toward the soft sounds of fabric and zippers. Something fell with a *thump*. A whispered curse followed.
Curious—and already picturing her buried in a mountain of hangers—I turned the corner and pushed open the walk-in door.
And f*****g stopped breathing.
