Mara woke with the unmistakable heaviness of someone who’d slept poorly and worried extensively.
Her phone alarm buzzed.
Her eyes felt gritty.
Her chest felt tight.
And the charm on her nightstand sat there like it had been watching her the whole night.
“Don’t,” she muttered to it.
It glinted anyway.
She dragged herself out of bed, intending to trudge through her morning in the usual fog. But when she opened her door, something made her freeze.
A folded piece of paper lay on the floor.
Her heart jumped straight into her throat.
She crouched, picked it up.
Simple handwriting — Noah’s — on the front:
For later. Only open when you’re ready.
She swallowed.
Only open when she was ready.
She hated how much he understood her.
She hated how gentle he was about it.
She brought the
