When the first light of morning crept into the room, I stumbled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. My bare feet padded softly against the cold tiles as I splashed water on my face, the icy chill shocking my swollen eyes. Just as I was about to return to bed, the bedroom door creaked open behind me.
"Zara, why didn't you call me if you needed the bathroom?" Tristan's voice was low and groggy but carried a faint edge of concern.
I froze, the words catching in my throat as I turned to see him. His disheveled appearance was a stark contrast to the Tristan I once knew. His neck and chest bore faint marks of earlier passion, a silent testimony to what had transpired with Anya.
For a moment, I felt exposed, caught in the raw vulnerability of the situation. It took several seconds before I managed to speak. "I can manage on my own," I said, my voice barely audible.
Tristan, oblivious to my discomfort, stepped forward to flush the toilet for me. Then, with an automatic familiarity, he guided me back to bed, his hand steady on my arm.