Nicco’s POV The scent reached me before the sound did. Something warm, inviting—eggs, maybe, or garlic kissed with butter—slipped through the cracked door and pulled me out of sleep like a quiet whisper. For a few seconds, I just lay there, eyes still closed, breathing it in. The kind of smell that belonged to late Sundays and slow mornings. The kind that felt like home, even if I didn’t know what that word meant anymore. When I finally turned my head, the faint green glow of the clock blinked back at me: 3:04 PM. Afternoon. My body ached like I’d been carrying someone else’s memories. And in a way, maybe I had. Last night—no, early this morning—came back in fragments. The weight of Troye’s hand on my back. The sound of his voice cracking mid-apology. That kiss—hesitant, despera

