The house had never felt this still.
Billy sat alone, fingers grazing the edge of the pillow where Artur's warmth still lingered.
The scent of woodsmoke and fresh herbs clung to the air—familiar, grounding, comforting.
He stared at the door, waiting, thinking Artur would be back any second.
The room still smelled faintly of warmth—like Artur's shirt and the leftover sweetness of their kiss.
Billy sank deeper into the couch, fingers brushing over his own lips as if he could press the moment back into reality.
He didn't want to move.
Didn't want to think.
Didn't want tomorrow to come.
Click.
The door creaked open.
But when the door opened, it wasn't him.
Mark stepped inside, his shirt slightly rumpled, collar loose, sweat glinting faintly on his neck from the walk. He looked around once before catching Billy's eyes.
"You're alone?" he asked, voice low.
Billy nodded. "Artur stepped out to help someone. He'll be back soon."
