Amy Stone
I push the memory of last night back where it belongs: under warm sheets, with Kael’s skin still smelling like musk and heat. For a half‑second I let the memory play like a private movie, my eyes find Kael at the kitchen table, sandwich in hand, hair still damp from the shower.
“Have you seen Tory?” I ask, scanning the room like she might be hiding under a throw.
Kael doesn’t look up from his sandwich. “Uhm, yeah actually. I found a note on the stand. Here it is.” He hands it across the counter, unwrapping the paper.
I read it slow, hoping the shape of the words will rearrange themselves into sense. They don’t.
“She just left? I hope she’s okay,” I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere on the edge of brittle.
“Maybe it was urgent,” Kael offers. He always offers calm
