The door had barely been closed for ten minutes before Julie felt it again—the ache of absence.
It was ridiculous, really. Roman had only just stepped out, but his leaving had carved a hollow space in the room, in her chest, in the quiet hush of the pre-dawn hour.
She tried to sleep.
She really did.
But the cold had crept back in. Not just into the air—but into her bones. Into the place where fear used to live.
So when she heard the door creak softly open again, her lashes fluttered—and stayed open.
Roman stood there, backlit by the low hallway light. His suit jacket was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up.
There was something quieter about him now—his expression softer, his steps slower.
"I thought you left," she murmured.
"I did," he said, stepping in, "but I kept hearing your silence."
Julie's lips parted slightly. The way he said it—it felt like poetry and protection all wrapped in one breath.
