Morning seeped gray through the curtains. Noel stirred, heavy-lidded, the phone slipping from its place beside him where it had kept vigil all night.
The screen blinked weakly—battery clinging to its last breath.
Before plugging it in, his thumb lingered, typing out a quick line:
"You better still be asleep, idiot."
A smirk tugged at him, almost against his will. Sent.
Only then did he drop the cable in, the faint buzz of charging filling the silence.
He padded barefoot across the carpet, rubbing at his eyes, and pushed open the bathroom door.
Cold tiles bit at his soles, the kind of wake-up that stung him sharper than the toothbrush bristles.
Toothbrush, water running, steam curling around the mirror until his reflection blurred.
His mind kept replaying fragments—Luca's voice going soft before sleep, that stubborn plea: don't hang up.
When he finally shut the water off, the house had woken.
The scent reached him first—warm, familiar, unmistakable.
