Lauren had once, years ago, lived in a place where winter never quite reached her skin, only her heart. The apartment with Damien had been all soft lamps and tasteful cushions, the kind of home that looked warm in photographs. Inside it, though, she had slowly learned to doubt every feeling she had.
It hadn’t happened in a single sharp moment. It was smaller things, repeated until they felt ordinary. “You’re remembering it wrong, Laur.” “No one else would take this so personally.” When she frowned or tried to explain, Damien would sigh and kiss her forehead, as if she were a fretful child.