The door hadn't closed.
Not really.
It had swung shut with a soft click minutes ago—maybe longer—but the echo of it still lingered in the back of Sloane's mind. Like a gunshot fired at a distance. Muted. But final.
Avery was gone.
And Sloane hadn't moved.
Couldn't.
He stood rooted to the stone floor of the garden, the night curling around him like smoke. Cold, damp air kissed the back of his neck where Avery's breath had just been, and the ghost of that final touch—forehead to forehead, heartbeat to heartbeat—echoed louder than any argument ever could have.
"Then don't ask me to stay."
He hadn't.
He should have.
The wind rustled through the bare branches above, brittle and soft, like fingers brushing dry parchment. Sloane let his eyes drift upward. The sky was cloud-streaked, faint starlight peeking through like it was ashamed to be seen.
He exhaled. The breath came tight. Shallow. His lungs had forgotten how to take in air without Avery's presence filling the gaps.
