They drill straight into my skull, and I wince as I stand in front of the pain relief aisle, staring at rows of bottles like they might rearrange themselves into something useful if I just wait long enough.
The migraine has been building since dawn, the kind that starts as pressure behind the eyes and slowly spreads until it feels like my head is packed with cotton and broken glass.
I know this pain. I’ve lived with it long enough to recognize the warning signs before it fully blooms.
The pulsing behind my temples. The nausea sitting low and ugly in my gut. The way every sound feels amplified, like the hum of the refrigerator or the shuffle of shoes on tile, is happening inside my skull.
Drinking yesterday didn’t help my cause at all.
I grab a box of painkillers and rub my forehead with my free hand, thumb pressing into the bridge of my nose.
Get in. Get out. Go home. Sleep.
That’s the plan. That has to be the plan.
I’m already running on fumes after the hospital visits and the stress of juggling my boss, the paperwork, and the construction schedules.
I’m grateful Mayor Brighton postponed our meeting until tomorrow. I don’t have the bandwidth today. I just need rest.
Then maybe later this evening, I can go back to the hospital and sit with Mom, read to her, let her complain about the food like she always does.
That’s what I’m supposed to be thinking about.
The bell above the door jingles. The sound is sharp enough to make me flinch.
Footsteps follow, heavier than most, familiar in a way that immediately puts me on edge. I don’t look up right away. I’m too busy willing my head not to split open, too focused on keeping myself upright.
Then the scent hits me.
Norah.
Not her exactly. Not the clean, soft version of her that I know so well.
This is richer. Thicker. Louder. It slides under my skin and sparks something deep in my chest before my brain can catch up.
My breath stutters.
I look up.
Jude stands a few feet away, frozen in front of the cold medicine section like he forgot why he came in.
He looks wrecked. His eyes are bloodshot, his shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he is holding himself together by sheer will.
And he smells like her.
Wrapped in it. Saturated.
Fuck.
My hand tightens around the box of painkillers so hard the cardboard creaks. The first thought that flashes through my mind is ugly and instinctive and impossible to stop.
Did he just fuck her?
The idea punches through me before I can reason it away, jealousy flaring hot and sharp. I hate that it even occurs to me. I hate that my body reacts before logic has a chance to intervene.
Jude turns and notices me then. Surprise flickers across his face before it settles into something heavier, something strained.
“Dorian,” he says. “Hey.”
