"Everything's about work." He tucks the shirt into his trousers, hands moving with practiced efficiency. "That's why we're here."
The casual dismissal is a slap to the face. I watch him transform before my eyes—the man who touched me with reverent hands becoming the distant journalist who challenged my authority that first day. Walls slam back into place with devastating speed.
"Right. Of course."
He reaches for his jacket, shrugging it over his shoulders. The gesture feels final somehow, like armor sliding into place. When he turns toward the hallway, his profile reveals nothing—no softness, no acknowledgment, no trace of the vulnerability he showed me in the darkness.
"I'll see you at the office."
The words carry no inflection, no promise of anything beyond professional obligation. He walks down the narrow hallway without looking back, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The front door opens and closes with a soft click that echoes through the cottage like a gunshot.
I remain sitting in bed, the coverlet clutched against my chest, staring at the empty doorway. The morning light continues streaming through the windows, but the magic has drained from it entirely. What felt warm and golden moments ago now seems harsh, exposing every shadow and flaw in the room.
The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sound of his footsteps fading down the cobblestone path.
My chest feels hollow, carved out by the casual efficiency of his departure. No explanation, no acknowledgment of what happened, no indication that it meant anything beyond physical release. Just the cold reality of morning and the return to professional boundaries.
I won't chase him. Won't demand explanations or beg for reassurance. If Brakkor Vane wants to pretend last night never happened, that's his choice to make.
But the ache settling behind my ribs suggests it won't be that simple to forget.
The brass bellabove the Golden Crust's door chimes with unusual force as I stumble through the entrance, nearly an hour past my usual arrival time. The familiar scents of cinnamon and rising dough should comfort me, but everything feels off-kilter this morning.
Maddie glances up from behind the counter, flour dusting her apron, and her welcoming smile falters the moment she sees my face.
"Cal? You look like you've been trampled by a herd of pixies."
Liora sits at the corner table, her silver hair braided with tiny glass vials that catch the morning light. Steam rises from her herbal tea, carrying the sharp scent of peppermint and something medicinal. Both women study me with a kind of concerned attention that makes my carefully constructed composure crumble.
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Absolute rubbish." Maddie wipes her hands on her apron and circles the counter. "Liora, look at her. What do you see?"
The apothecary's keen eyes sweep over me, cataloguing details like symptoms. "Tension in the shoulders, shadows under the eyes, and that particular brand of misery that comes from emotional upheaval rather than physical exhaustion."
"Exactly." Maddie guides me to a chair opposite Liora. "Sit. Talk. I'll bring tea."
"I don't need?—"
"You're sitting." Liora's voice carries the authority of someone who's spent decades reading people's ailments. "And you're going to tell us what's wrong."
Maddie returns with a steaming mug of chamomile, setting it before me with gentle firmness. The warmth seeps through the ceramic into my palms, grounding me in the present moment.
"It's Brakkor."
"Ah." Liora nods knowingly. "The brooding orc with the tragic backstory."
"We've been working closely on this article. Really closely. And last night..." I pause, staring into the pale tea. "We slept together."
Maddie's eyes widen. "Cal! You didn't mention you were interested in?—"
"I wasn't. I mean, I didn't plan it. It just happened." The words tumble out faster now, like a dam breaking. "And it was... significant. At least, it felt significant to me. But this morning he couldn't get out of the cottage fast enough."
"Classic tortured soul behavior," Liora observes, swirling her own tea thoughtfully. "Men like him carry their past like armor. The moment they feel something real, they retreat."
Maddie settles into the third chair, leaning forward with eager sympathy. "He's probably terrified that he actually felt something. You saw through all his walls, and now he's panicking."
"Or maybe he really doesn't care." I take a sip of tea, letting the warmth chase away the hollow feeling in my chest. "Maybe it meant nothing to him, and I'm reading significance into something that was just... physical."
