On the surface, almost nothing about the room has changed. The bed is neatly made, there’s no personal possessions scattered about—all of Sofia’s things are still back at her apartment. It’s all clean and tidy, but as I stand in the middle of the room, something about it feels different. When I breathe in, I can smell the scent of shampoo and detergent and cleaning products, the faint hint of whatever the stylist used on her hair still lingering, but there’s something else there too. I can smell her in the air, that soft powdery sweetness of her skin that I inhaled when I held her up against
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Kinda wish the author didn’t say he’s hard because it ruins how sweet this paragraph is
