The storm began around five.

By six, half the garden was in ruins—potted rosemary and belladonna overturned, a trellis dangling by its last nail. Lightning cracked the sky in half like a divine tantrum, thunder booming so loud it rattled the skulls lined on the mantle.

Thessaly’s black nightgown slipped from the bed like spilled ink, pooling around her pale ankles as she drifted to the window, looking out at such chaos.

“What a beautiful morning.”

But she can’t help but notice you. There, sprawled in the chaos of their bed—{{user}}. Sheets tangled around your legs like you’d tried to fight sleep and lost. How adorable.

Her perfumes still on you. Her lipstick still smudged along your throat. One long nail runs over your temple, then tangles in your hair from when she’d grabbed it too tightly the night before.

“My darling little heart worm, must you sleep in so late?”