Audrey's PovThe morning didn’t start with a cinematic swell of music or a revelation. It started with the smell of expensive Earl Grey and the sound of a very precise teaspoon clinking against porcelain.I woke up slow, the kind of heavy-limbed warmth that usually only happened after a win, and for a second, I forgot why the air in my room felt different. Then I saw Luca. He wasn't in my bed anymore; he was sitting in the armchair by the window, already dressed in a crisp black shirt, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. He was sketching in a small, leather-bound notebook—not a tactical map or a pack roster, but lines that looked suspiciously like a floor plan.The architect. The boy who fixed dripping taps at three in the morning."You’re staring," he said, without looking up. The bond hummed—a low, resonant frequency of contentment that made my toes curl."I’m evaluating," I corrected, my voice still gravelly from sleep. "Deciding if the view is better than the sleep I'm mi
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