The afternoon light spills through the glass wall in slow, golden ribbons—thick and warm, like honey poured from some invisible jar.
I sit on the couch, one hand draped over the armrest, fingers curled loosely against the velvet fabric. Outside, I am calm. Inside, my heart is not my own. It races. It stumbles. It remembers.
My face burns with a warmth I cannot blame on the sunlight spilling across the floor. And no matter how many times I tell myself to stop, the memory returns.
Again. And again.
The whisper of a touch.
The soft brush of lips that almost were.
Beside me, Silas sits at a careful distance—close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, far enough to pretend there is nothing between us but air and empty space. His eyes are lowered, fixed on some invisible point on the polished marble.
