The morning light was soft but insistent as it streamed into the penthouse, curling into the corners of the bedroom and warming the cool sheets. Ella sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in jeans and a pale sweater Nicholas had bought her in Positano—light and warm, the color of sand. Her fingers moved absently over the hem as if it grounded her.
Behind her, the sheets were still tangled, the faint scent of him clinging to the linens. Nicholas was half-asleep, chest rising and falling in the heavy hush of early morning. One arm reached across the space she'd left, his hand resting palm-down in the dip her body had occupied minutes earlier.
"You sure you don't want me to come with you?" he asked, voice rough with sleep.
Ella caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked beautiful in the way only people do when they let their guard down—hair tousled, eyes soft, bare skin kissed with the last remnants of sleep. She paused as she twisted her hair into a loose bun.
