The morning air is fresh as I slide the glass door open—a soft, deliberate motion, the track whispering beneath the fra.
It hits my face then. Cold. Sharp. The kind of cold that doesn’t ask permission, that slips beneath your skin before you can brace yourself.
My hair is a disaster—tangled from sleep, falling across my forehead in ways I can’t be bothered to fix. My eyes are still heavy, still caught sowhere between dreaming and waking, the edges of my vision soft and unfocused.
I run a hand through my hair. A useless gesture. It falls right back.
I blink.
Stare at the garden.
The grass stretches out like a green sea, each blade weighed down by dew so heavy it looks like rain touched only the garden.
The white roses bow their heads—heavy too, dripping, their petals almost translucent in the gray morning light.
No sunlight today.
The sky is a sheet of pale silver, the clouds thick and low, pressing against the world.
Winter has already started.
My hand stays tangled in my hair. I don’t move it.
Last night crashes back without warning.
Silas’s wide eyes when I raised my voice. The way his face shifted—not with fear, not with anger, but with sothing quieter. Sothing that looked like a door closing. The slow, careful movent of his fingers across the page as he wrote the note. My harsh words still echo sowhere in the corners of my mind.
Ellis... you shouldn’t have said that. He was just asking about your childhood. It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t have to snap.
I didn’t an to say it like that.
I shake my head—sharp, violent, a physical rejection of the thought.
Why am I even thinking about this?
The air feels colder now, or maybe that’s just . I cross my arms over my chest, fingers pressing into my sleeves.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
I didn’t even know about his mother. So it’s not my fault.
He’s the one who always crosses the line. Always pushing. Always appearing in doorways and sliding notes beneath doors and looking at with those eyes I can never read.
That’s it.
That’s all there is.
I take a deep breath. The cold air fills my lungs—sharp, clean, almost painful. I hold it there for a mont. Let it settle. Let it freeze whatever is trying to thaw inside .
Ellis. Relax. Calm yourself.
I close my eyes.
And his face appears.
Imdiately. Uninvited.
Not slowly. Not gradually.
Just—there.
The unreadable eyes. The soft lips. The way he looked at last night—not angry, not wounded, just... there. Waiting. Like he had all the ti in the world to sit on my bed and hope.
I open my eyes quickly.
What the hell is this?
Why am I still thinking about him?
My fingers rise to my temple, pressing hard, rubbing slow circles into the skin. Trying to erase whatever this is.
He’s ssed up my mind.
That’s what he’s done.
He’s crawled inside my head and made a ho there without asking permission.
I need strong coffee. Black. Bitter. Sothing to burn away the fog.
I turn and walk out of the room.
My feet are bare against the cold floor. Each step echoes in the silence—too loud, too deliberate, like the house is announcing my movents to no one.
The living room is quiet as I pass through it—too quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for sothing.
Or soone.
My eyes scan automatically, almost against my will, sweeping across the couches, the tables, the corners.
He must be in the kitchen. Making breakfast. With that soft smile.
Of course. Always there. Always present. Like he belongs here.
I step into the kitchen.
And stop.
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The hollow kind. The kind that tells you sothing is missing before you even know what it is.
No sizzle of a frying pan. No gentle clink of a spatula against the stove. No presence. No soft smile waiting to greet .
Where is he?
The kitchen is spotless—too clean, like no one has touched it this morning. The counters are bare. The air doesn’t carry the scent of butter or coffee or whatever he makes in the mornings that fills the house with warmth.
My gaze shifts to the breakfast table.
And there it is.
Breakfast. Set with the sa careful precision he always uses. The glass of warm milk sits where he always puts it—on the right side, slightly angled toward the chair where I always sit.
Like he arranged it specifically for .
Beside it, a folded note. White paper. Clean edges. Waiting.
I step forward. The floor is cold against my bare feet—colder than before, or maybe I’m only noticing it now. Like the house itself is trying to wake up.
I take the note from the table. Unfold it.
Good morning.
I have so urgent work to handle, so I’m leaving early. Please don’t skip breakfast—you didn’t eat much last night. Here is my secretary’s number, in case you need anything. Please call him.
Have a good day.
I stare at the words.
He left already.
Sothing stirs in my chest. I don’t know what to call it. Anger? Irritation? Or sothing else. It burns, whatever it is—low and slow, spreading through my ribs like smoke.
I crumple the note. Harshly. My fist closes around it until the paper becos a tight ball in my palm.
I throw it away.
Who cares?
I glance at the breakfast.
The carefully arranged plates. The warm milk. The empty chair across from where I usually sit.
Annoying.
I turn and walk back to the living room. It’s still. Quiet. The kind of stillness that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own heartbeat.
I sit on the couch. The cushions sink softly beneath , the leather smooth and cool against my skin.
I scroll through my phone. Sum’s ssages. Endless. Relentless.
Ellis, you’re ignoring again...
Ellis, seriously, you’re so heartless. Can’t you reply just once? Just tell —is Nick an Alpha?
Ellis...
Ellis...
Ellis...
My mood is already ruined. And he’s still stuck on this. On Nick. On nas and designations and whatever fantasy he’s building in his head.
My fingers move across the screen with deliberate calm.
I type: Sum. Co pick up.
A minute passes. Then his reply cos.
Finally. You reply. Where do you want to go? And why should I pick you up? Use your own car. I’m not your driver.
I type back: I’m not in the mood to drive.
His reply cos imdiately.
Then call your driver.
Every reply irritates more. My fingers move quickly across the screen.
Don’t you want to know about Nick?
The reply cos instantly—before my screen even finishes dimming.
20 minutes. I’ll be there. Be ready.
I turn off the screen. I toss the phone aside. It lands on the cushion with a soft thud. I lean back against the couch. Stare at the ceiling.
Who cares if he left or not?
It’s better this way. Now I have so peace.
Alone. Like before.
I don’t have to see his face. I don’t have to hear his soft footsteps. I don’t have to read his little notes or drink his warm milk or sit across from him at a table that feels smaller every day.
It’s peaceful.
The word hangs in the air, weightless and hollow.
Peaceful.
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