The morning light through the high skylight of the Jericho loft was pale and silver, reflecting off the quiet rain-puddles on the balcony outside. Inside, the world felt like it had been filtered through a soft-focus lens.

Arya woke up slowly. For a second, she was confused by the smell—it wasn’t the scent of her lavender laundry detergent at the dorms. It was cedarwood, cold rain, and the faint, underlying musk that only belonged to Laksh. Then she felt it—the softness of the high-thread-count duvet and the rough, oversized cotton of his t-shirt draped over her skin.