Elin's POV

The downtown apartment feels like a tomb when I step inside.

My boots track melting snow across the hardwood, but I don't care. The silence presses in—thick, suffocating. Fiona's words echo in my skull: *'A man who chases you through snow, bares his throat like that? What's to complain about?'*

Everything. I want to complain about everything.

I drop my coat on the couch and head straight for the kitchen. Tea. I need tea, or whiskey, or something to drown the mess churning in my ...