Warmth.
That was the first thing she felt—steady, unfamiliar warmth pressed along her side.
Elara stirred, half-caught between sleep and waking, her body sluggish, her mind reluctant to leave the quiet she'd fallen into. A thin ribbon of sunlight slipped past the curtains and painted her cheek in gold. It was gentle, not the harsh fluorescent glare of the office she'd grown to hate.
Her lashes fluttered. For a moment, she thought she'd simply overslept. Maybe the weekend had arrived and she'd forgotten to set an alarm. Then her fingers brushed against something solid—skin, warm and alive.
Her heart stuttered.
She turned her head, and the air caught in her throat.
A man lay beside her.
Dark hair fell across his forehead in soft waves, the ends still slightly damp as though he'd showered before bed. Morning light traced the edges of his face—the high bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble along his chin. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm beneath the thin sheet, muscles moving with the lazy certainty of someone utterly at home.
For a few seconds, Elara could only stare. Her mind clawed for logic, for any explanation that didn't begin with the words I've gone insane.
Did I get drunk? No. Did someone break in? Why would he be asleep?
Her throat was dry. She swallowed hard and whispered, "This has to be a dream."
She reached out—hesitant, almost trembling—and poked his arm.
Solid. Warm. Human.
Not a dream.
A small, strangled laugh escaped her. "Okay, subconscious," she muttered, "you're really spoiling me this time."
The man's brows knit together. Without warning, his eyes opened—stormy gray, sharp enough to cut straight through her disbelief.
"You can't give me five minutes of peace in my own damn house?" His voice was low and gravel-rough, still thick with sleep and irritation.
Elara froze. Words failed her.
He exhaled through his nose, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood. The sheet slid down his back as he reached for a robe draped over a nearby chair. His movements were unhurried, precise—the kind of casual confidence that came from belonging.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
Only then did Elara breathe again. She sat upright, clutching the blanket to her chest, pulse hammering.
The room around her was wrong. Everything—every tiny thing—was wrong.
Soft cream walls. A polished wooden floor that gleamed under the sunlight. Curtains made of expensive fabric that whispered when they moved. The faint scent of sandalwood and linen drifted through the air, clean and soothing.
It wasn't her apartment.
Her gaze darted from one unfamiliar object to another: a large bed neatly made, a desk stacked with orderly folders, a vase of white flowers on the nightstand. Even the air felt different—cool, filtered, almost too pure.
On the dresser sat a picture frame that caught the morning light. The delicate floral carving and soft gold paint drew her eyes despite herself.
She leaned closer.
Two people stood in the photo—smiling, elegant, the picture of newlyweds. The woman wore a flowing white gown trimmed with lace. The man beside her wore a perfectly tailored black suit.
Her stomach twisted.
It was him.
The man in the bed.
And the woman… wasn't her.
Elara's breath hitched. She touched the frame, tracing the outline of the bride's smile with a trembling fingertip. The gesture felt wrong, intrusive, like touching a memory that didn't belong to her.
She turned away quickly. The movement made her notice something else—her clothes.
Gone were her wrinkled office attire and stockings. She wore pale-blue pajamas, soft against her skin, smelling faintly of lavender and something clean, like fresh air after rain. The fabric whispered when she moved.
Her body felt lighter, but not hers.
She lifted her hands—slimmer fingers, smooth skin without the faint scars she'd earned from years of keyboard work. Her heart pounded harder.
The bathroom door opened again. Steam rolled out in a thin wave. The man reappeared, his hair damp, his expression unreadable. He looked every inch the stranger he was—composed, distant, carrying an aura that filled the quiet room.
"Are you going to gawk all day or get up?" he asked. "Breakfast is ready. After that, do whatever you want."
His tone was clipped, as if he were speaking to a nuisance rather than a person. He didn't wait for an answer; he simply walked out, bare feet soundless on the floorboards.
The faint echo of his footsteps lingered in the hall until silence swallowed it whole.
Elara sat there for a long moment, stunned. Her mind ran in circles, but every thought ended with the same impossible truth—this wasn't her home, and that man certainly wasn't part of her life.
She forced herself to stand. Her knees wobbled. The air felt too thin.
Each step toward the bathroom felt heavier, as though she were wading through someone else's reality.
When she finally reached the mirror, her breath caught.
The face staring back wasn't hers.
Porcelain skin, smooth and almost luminous under the light. Dark hair that cascaded in glossy waves over her shoulders. Eyes too large, too striking—framed by lashes she'd never owned. High cheekbones. Lips shaped like a secret.
She touched her cheek. The reflection did the same.
"Who… the hell… is this?" she whispered.
The woman in the mirror said nothing.
Her reflection only stared back—calm, silent, beautiful—
like an echo waiting to answer.