(Michelle Lui's POV)
Sunday nights always had that strange kind of quiet that made you think too much.
Maybe it was the way the city outside seemed softer — lights blinking slower, cars fewer, the hum of life dimmer. The whole world felt like it had hit pause.
I was sitting cross-legged on my bed in my satin robe, hair still damp from my shower, staring at the faint reflection of the moonlight on my bedroom window. My room smelled faintly of vanilla and fabric softener — comforting, familiar, grounding.
Beside me, my laptop was still open, its glow highlighting a spreadsheet of completely unrelated things: grocery lists, random reminders, and half a dozen investment notes I hadn't updated all week.
But my eyes weren't really on the screen.
They were on the small jewelry box beside it.
The one holding the bracelet Andy gave me earlier that afternoon.
