Page 41 of Before Dawn

The porter loaded my luggage while we climbed into the car, the city lights streaking past as we pulled onto the highway.

“You hungry?” she asked, throwing me a knowing grin.

I groaned theatrically. “I’m starving.”

“Good, because Mom and Dad are cooking dinner.”

I squealed at the thought. Nothing compared to a home-cooked meal, and it was one of the things I’d miss most when I moved.

Pulling out my phone, I quickly texted Azzy.

Me:I landed.

Azzy:Perfect! Be safe and call me if you ever need me!

Me:I will.yellow heart emoji

Aurora glanced over. “How was New York?”

“Exciting,” I admitted, grateful. “And thank you again for setting me up with the realtor.”

She smiled. “You’re moving three thousand miles away. I needed to make sure you’d be comfortable.”

“Still, I appreciate you.”

Her brow creased slightly. “Are you feeling okay about all this? I know it’s a lot to handle.”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “It is, but I think I’m managing just fine.”

“Just take it one step at a time,” she said softly. “And call me if it feels like too much.”

“Thanks. I probably will—more than you think.”

She smirked. “What will you do for work until you graduate?”

“Not sure yet, but I’ll look for something when I get back.”

Her eyes lit up. “My friend works at Book Culture—they’re always hiring. I’ll ask her.”

I gasped. “Seriously, what would I do without you?”

“Suffer,” she teased.

I laughed, the weight of the move momentarily forgotten.

The rest of the drive was quiet, with small moments of sleep in between. But as we pulled into the driveway of our parents’ home in Presidio Heights, familiarity wrapped around me like a warm blanket.

The house, with its tall arched windows, intricate molding, and the glow of a chandelier over polished floors, looked exactly the same. And the comforting scents of wood, fresh flowers, and my mother’s cooking filled the air.

“Parentals!” Aurora shouted as we stepped inside. “We’re home!”

The tap of my mother’s heels and the steady sound of my father’s shoes echoed down the hall before they appeared, arms already open for hugs.

My mom, Alicia Asher, exuded effortless elegance—her gray-streaked curls and warm brown eyes often making people mistake her for my sister instead. My dad, Daniel Asher, with his salt-and-pepper hair and kind smile, still carried the same quiet confidence he always had.

And just like that, the stress of the past few weeks melted away. I was home.

Before I could take another step, she was already fussing over me.

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