The scent of white lilies was supposed to be comforting, but to me, it smelled only of finality. It was heavy, cloying, and entirely inescapable within the vaulted stone walls of St. Jude’s.

I sat in the front pew, staring blankly at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The church wa

The apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic metallic clicking of Julian assembling his toolkit.

I sat at the kitchen island, a cup of chamomile tea warming my hands, watching him systematically place his Allen wrenches and screwdrivers into the canvas bag. He was avoiding my eyes. He had been d

Julian Thorne was not a man who cooked. In the three years we had lived together, our kitchen had served primarily as a staging area for takeout boxes and coffee cups. So, when I unlocked the front door of our apartment to the overwhelming scent of seared steak, garlic, and rosemary, I paused in the