The other side of the bed was empty when I woke up.
For a second, my brain didn't quite register it. I reached over, expecting to feel her warmth, her hair brushing against my arm, something. But all I found was cool linen and silence.
I sat up, squinting at the clock on the nightstand. 7:46 a.m.
Sunday. No meetings. No calls. No deadlines.
Just the kind of morning that used to mean slow breakfasts, shared coffee, and her legs tangled over mine on the couch while she read emails out loud just to make me laugh.
I rubbed a hand over my face.
We'd made up last night, hadn't we? We'd talked, really talked. For the first time in weeks, it hadn't felt like we were standing on opposite ends of a fault line.
So where was she?
The bathroom was empty, the sink still dry. Her towel wasn't on the rack.
I changed into a black T-shirt and joggers, then headed downstairs, Duchess' faint meow echoing somewhere below.
