They’re pale, soft, faintly warm from my body, tucked neatly beneath the mattress corners. My old sheets, the ones I remember clawing at, are gone. The room smells like soap and something else I recognize too well now. Cedarwood. Smoke. A trace of heat that makes my stomach dip.
I look down at myself.
Clean. No sweat. No sticky residue. My skin feels washed, lotioned even. My hair is pulled up into a loose bun at the nape of my neck, secured with my favorite elastic. The one I always keep in my bathroom to hold my hair up when I’m showering.
I lift a hand and touch it, fingers shaking just a little.
“How fast asleep was I?” I mutter.
There’s no one in the room. No weight behind me. No broad warmth pressed against my back. Just morning light and the soft hum of the house settling.
“Damon?” I call.
No one answers.
I stand slowly, bracing myself against the edge of the bed when my knees protest. My body feels like it’s been wrung out and put back together by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There’s an afterglow humming through me, calmer now, muted, but unmistakable.
The heat is gone.
That realization lands all at once.
I straighten, breathing in carefully, waiting for that familiar pull, that needy slide under my skin.
Nothing.
“That’s… new,” I whisper.
I cross the room and open my closet, pulling out an oversized T-shirt and sliding it over my head. The fabric brushes my sore skin and makes me wince.
As I turn back toward the bed, something catches my eye.
On the dresser, placed with deliberate care, sits a bottle of water. Next to it is a folded piece of paper.
My chest tightens.
I walk over and pick them up, lowering myself carefully onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath my weight. I brace my hand against the frame and unfold the note.
The handwriting is neat.
Caroline,
I’m sorry. For everything. For yesterday being what it was instead of what it should have been. I didn’t want you to wake up alone without knowing.
You’re safe. You’re okay. I’m clean. I always get tested, so you don’t have to worry about any of that. I’m clean, I promise. Council-verified. I’ll show you the results if you need that.
The heat passed sometime early morning. You slept through it.
I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.
There’s a calming blend in the kitchen, already measured. Drink it before noon. It’ll help settle the aftereffects.
I’ve left you some cash too in case you need something else.
If you need anything, call me.
—D
I stare at the paper, my jaw tight.
