We were partners in a dangerous dance, and every step forward felt like falling.
The morning after was a study in quiet revolution. Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, streamed into Lysander’s bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten secrets given new life. I woke to the scent of him on the pillows—sandalwood and something uniquely, essentially male that was now etched into my memory. The space beside me was empty, but the indent on the mattress was still warm, a tangible ghost of his presence. The memory of the night was a physical brand on my skin, a seismic shift that had left the landscape of our personal war irrevocably altered. It hadn’t been a conquest or a surrender; it had been a mutual, terrifying discovery. A discovery of the man beneath the monster, and
