Peter opens the door to the cottage, a greeting ready on his lips and freezes. His nostrils flare as a strange scent hits him right in the gut, the smell as solid as a punch to the stomach. He almost flinches from the force of it. The scent is complex, something like honey and cedar and the burnt ozone left behind after a lightning strike.
A collection of scenes that fit in with Written in Red, in no particular order.
Peter had given up hope of ever finding his soulmate until the red string on his finger leads him to a four-year-old. He’s going to Hell. Or jail. Or both.