Morning arrived, draping the room in soft light. I rose, feeling the weight of what needed to be done. In the kitchen, I moved with deliberate purpose. The scent of coffee filled the air, the familiar ritual grounding me. I prepared breakfast, the sounds of sizzling bacon and the kettle’s whistle surprisingly soothing amid the chaos.

Logan appeared at the kitchen door, his eyes heavy with fatigue and something else—guilt, perhaps? He opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him with a single glance. My silence, potent and palpable, hung between us like a third presence.

“Claire, about last night—” he began, his voice faltering under the weight of my gaze.