The cold air brushed against Winter's skin as he stirred awake. His arm reached out instinctively, expecting Zara's warmth beside him, but the bed was empty.
No, not empty.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light, finding her small frame curled at the very edge, back turned to him, knees drawn up as if she were making herself smaller. Zara never slept like this. She was always close, seeking his warmth as much as he sought hers.
Last night's argument settled over him like a lead blanket.
"I wanted to be sure."
He exhaled sharply. He'd been a fool. The words had come out too sharp, too final, cutting into the fragile balance between them. The moment he'd said them, he wanted to take them back. He hadn't meant to make her feel like an afterthought.
He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the ceiling. He was angry, frustrated—not at her, but at himself, at how his past still dictated his choices. But instead of explaining, he had deflected.
And now, she was pulling away.
