Late October. "The Nest."
The night was cold, the kind that bit gently but stayed, settling in the bones like memory.
Serena stepped out of the carriage and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The air smelled of wet leaves and old stone; faint mist still hung low over the street. Above, the lamps of The Nest burned golden against the gray.
It had been a week since she had last been here — since Charlton had held her, and she had told him she needed time. Time to think, to breathe, to understand if what she felt was love or simply habit.
She had spent every night since realizing that it didn't matter.
Love was not something one could think through. It was the ache that persisted long after the wound should have closed.
--
Charlton was already waiting when she entered.
