The air carried a faint chill that morning, the kind that made the city feel both alive and distant at once. From the balcony, Violet watched New York stretch awake — taxis weaving through early traffic, the rhythm of footsteps below syncing with the hum of the streets. A quiet peace had settled inside her, fragile but real.

She stood with her mug in hand, the steam rising in lazy curls. Behind her, Bryan moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flipping pancakes with unhurried ease. The scent of butter and maple syrup filled the air domestic, grounding, intimate.

“You’re staring,” he teased lightly, sensing her gaze.

She...