The morning light spills into my room like honey poured from a slow hand—golden, thick, reluctant. It pools across the marble floor, climbs the walls, touches everything with warmth.
I stand beside the glass wall, staring out at the garden. My hair is a mess—dark strands falling across my forehead, untouched. My eyes are tired. Heavy.
My hand reaches for the handle. I slide the glass door open.
Cold air rushes in—sharp, sudden, alive. It hits my face like a quiet slap, stealing the warmth from my skin, replacing it with something bracing. Almost relief. The air carries the faint scent of wet grass—still damp with night dew—and the soft perfume of white roses in bloom.
Beautiful. Untouched.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Let the cold fill my lungs.
Last night, I couldn't sleep.
The thought drifts through me like smoke. Unbidden. Unwelcome.
I don't know why.
Maybe because of the drunken Beta.
