The Sanctum dissolved around us in layers, peeling back stone and torchlight and the faint smell of candle wax until California materialized in its place. Aurora's living room. Real couch. Real carpet. Real everything, including the three women arranged across the furniture like a Renaissance painting commissioned by someone with questionable taste.
Naomi sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, wrapped in one of Aurora's oversized sweaters with the collar sliding off one brown shoulder, her pink and black hair a complete disaster from sand and sex and being loved properly on a volcanic beach. She held a champagne flute between both hands and her pink eyes found mine immediately, tracking down to Addison in my arms, and she smiled. That specific Naomi smile. The one that forgave everything before you'd even finished the apology.
