Luca woke slowly, one arm flung over his face as if it could block out the morning he wasn't ready to face.
His neck ached from how he'd slept—half-twisted, sprawled across the mattress that felt twice as big without Noel in it.
He didn't move right away. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling fan inching in lazy circles.
The silence was thick, the kind that pressed into your ears and made your thoughts louder.
Finally, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor felt cool against his bare feet.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then ruffled his hair, but it did nothing to shake off the emptiness.
His phone sat where he'd tossed it last night, screen dark.
He picked it up anyway—more habit than hope—and padded downstairs, barefoot, every step echoing through the hall.
The parlor yawned open before him—vast, immaculate, and eerily untouched, like a showroom instead of a home.
