The light beyond the glass wall is brighter now, softer in a different way—the slow warmth of morning beginning to drift toward afternoon.
I step out of the bathroom, and the steam follows me, curling around my shoulders and clinging to my damp skin like it doesn't want to let go. The warm water has loosened something in my muscles, something tight and knotted that I didn't even realize was there.
I feel lighter.
Strange.
Unsettled.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the towel draped over my head, and dry my hair in slow, absent strokes. The fabric brushes softly against my fingers. The warmth of the bath still lingers on my skin—a phantom heat that refuses to fade, like the memory of fever after the sickness has already broken.
I stretch lazily, arms reaching toward the ceiling as my spine cracks in quiet protest. It's the first time I've ever felt this kind of freshness after a rut.
Strange. One night. Without an Omega.
How did it disappear?
