Morning light filtered warmly through the white curtains, seeping between the folds with conspiratorial delicacy. The air was filled with unexpected aromas: something golden, buttery... sweet and savory at the same time. The normally silent house seemed to come alive with every scent rising from the kitchen.
Eliza descended barefoot, her hair disheveled and her eyes still marked by the night. She wore an old sweatshirt that reached her thighs. It smelled of salt, of memories... and of Stephan. The memory of how he had held her on the terrace, how his hands had explored her body with a mixture of boldness and precision, made her shiver, and a blush crossed her face despite herself.
