Serafina
I woke up late.
And not the good kind of late — not the warm, satisfied, peace-in-your-chest kind. No. I woke up with my mouth dry, and the shrinking realization that he possibly never left.
I could feel him.
Dorian Everhart — oh, my bad, my husband — was somewhere in this apartment. Breathing my air. Walking on my floor. And definitely moving like he owned every inch of it.
And somehow, I still hadn’t figured out if he was the intruder in my life or if I’d let him in myself.
I stepped out of my room barefoot, wearing one of his old button-downs that somehow ended up in my closet.
I didn’t think about why I hadn’t thrown it out.
The kitchen light was on, and so was the coffee machine.
And there he was — leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, mug in hand, like we had
