The desk lamp cast halos on her notes as she leaned forward, willing herself to concentrate. But with every page she turned, the ache surged higher in her throat—silent, constant.
Ryder's absence had a weight to it, pressing against her ribs no matter how deeply she inhaled the clean, dry air of study.
His face surfaced behind her closed eyes, not like memory, but like longing. And no matter how far she read, the question loomed just behind the margin: Would he call?
Finally—after hours of staring, scribbling, and second-guessing—she set down her pen. Her arms floated upward in a slow, lazy stretch, spine curving as she let out a yawn.
Steam curled around her as the shower rained down, the comfort of it folding her in as though shielding her from thought. For a time, she let herself fade into the warmth.
