Galathea Brooks woke to quiet.
Not the fragile quiet of exhaustion, nor the strained silence that followed something unresolved, but something steadier-- contained, deliberate, almost curated. It settled over the room like a held breath that had decided, for now, not to release.
She didn't move immediately.
The ceiling above her remained unchanged, the filtered daylight slipping through the edges of the curtains in pale, controlled lines. The bed beside her, however, told a different story.
Empty.
The absence registered before thought formed around it.
Her gaze shifted slightly to the side, tracing the faint indentation left behind, the warmth already fading into neutrality. For a moment, her body reacted before her mind did-- an instinctive awareness, a recalibration of presence.
Then memory caught up.
The marks.
The way his control had anchored her when the weight threatened to pull her apart.
The way she had let him.
The way he spoke to her soul.
