Alora's Windsong
By the time I padded back to the comms room, the steam had left my skin, but the memory of the mountain and the bike and Blaise’s grin sat like a coiled thing inside me, waiting.
I forced my hands to steady and logged into the tower feeds. The chatter was thin at first—static, blurred pings, the usual late-night noise. But every time a signal spiked, I found my eyes drifting to the door, waiting for that devilish smile to step back into my world. Instead, I got a map, a list of frequencies, and the steady, dull glow of the monitors. Blaise was gone for now—and I had a pack to keep safe. Yet even as I tuned the scanners, my skin still tasted of smoke and leather, and Jag’s satisfied purr prom
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