"Sofia?"
Tristan's voice came gently through the other end of the line, a little rough with sleep but laced with concern.
"Is everything okay?"
She hesitated, blinking at the pale morning light filtering through the kitchen window. The mug of warm milk in her hand trembled slightly, and she tightened her grip around it, needing the anchor.
"Yeah," she said softly, "I'm fine. I'm sorry for calling this early..."
There was a rustling on his end, like he was sitting up in bed. "No worries. You can call me anytime, Sofia. Day or night—you don't need to apologize."
Her lips curved into a faint, grateful smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks, Tristan," she murmured.
But he knew her too well. "I'm guessing this isn't a casual morning chat. What's going on?"
Sofia took a deep breath, one that didn't seem to reach her lungs. The question on her tongue felt too heavy, too raw, but she forced herself to ask it anyway—quietly, carefully.
