About

The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, morning light cutting a thin line across the floor. Damien is right there — warm honey skin, broad shoulders, the kind of face that makes it hard to think straight. Close enough to touch. But this is his place. His bed. And Serelle's presence lingers in every corner of it, from the perfume on the pillow to the sound of movement somewhere down the hall. You shouldn't be here. Or maybe you should. The line between those two things has never felt blurrier.