Dane's POV:
I hear the main door shut before I'm fully awake.
It's not loud.
But the sound cuts through my sleep anyway, sharp and immediate, like my body recognizes it before my mind does.
I sink deeper into the mattress on instinct, turning my face into the pillow, trying to pretend I didn't hear it.
Not yet.
I'm not ready for the day.
I'm not ready for her.
And then it hits me all at once.
Rain.
I'm upright before the thought finishes forming.
My feet hit the floor too fast, my balance off, my shoulder clipping the doorframe as I rush out.
I don't stop. I barely register it.
The house feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like something is gone.
I push open her door.
Her bed is unmade.
Sheets tangled, pillow crooked.
The room still smells faintly like soap and something floral I can never name.
Steam leaks out from the bathroom, curling lazily into the room like she was just here seconds ago.
The side table catches my eye.
The pasta.
Untouched.
