By the time Galathea Brooks reached Cael Alexander's penthouse, dawn had begun thinning the sky to a washed-out gray.
She hadn't called ahead.
She hadn't trusted her voice.
The elevator ride up felt endless -- mirrored walls reflecting a version of her she barely recognized: hair disordered, mascara faintly smudged, pupils too wide. She looked like someone who had seen a house breathe.
When the doors opened, Cael was already standing in the entryway.
He hadn't slept.
Of course he hadn't.
Lean upper body bare, full sleeve ink exposed. He took one look at her and stepped forward without asking.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
Galathea tried to answer but nothing came out.
Her body moved before her mind did -- crossing the space between them, arms draping around his waist, face burying in his chest like she might fall through the floor if she didn't anchor herself to something solid.
He caught her.
Not dramatically, not desperately, just firmly.
