Where Else But the Bed
Nova's bedroom was filled with a golden gloaming—the sort that occurred only at twilight, when the world breathed its secrets in slow whispers. The silk curtains glowed softly, casting honey-patterns on the marble floor. Light seeped from the high windows, dancing idly across the polished surfaces. The air was filled with a calming whiff of chamomile, blended with the more personal aromas of linen, warm flesh, and something deeply hers—earthy, female, and hauntingly familiar.
