The first thing I noticed wasn’t the light—it was the sound.
A thousand things, all at once.
The chirp of a bird far beyond the window. The flutter of its wings as it took flight. The distant creak of a branch swaying under the weight of the wind. The rhythm of breath—his breath—Tristan’s, slow but uneven, catching in his chest like he was holding something back.
Every sound pressed against me, impossibly loud, sharp, alive.
My eyes were closed, yet I could see the outline of the world in my mind. I could feel the dust particles dancing through the air. My skin prickled, but not from cold. From awareness. The kind that settled into your bones and refused to leave.
I took a breath.
Scents rushed in like a flood. Cedarwood. Leather. Rain. Tristan. His scent was embedded in the floorboa
