I wake before dawn, as I always do. The habit never left me, no matter how many nights pass without violence, or how many layers of security stand between my body and the world outside. Consciousness arrives fully formed, expanding outward before my eyes open. I notice the quiet first. The building’s systems vibrate beneath the walls at a familiar frequency. Exterior cameras cycle. Hallway sensors remain undisturbed. The men outside the door haven’t moved from their assigned positions. Everything is intact.
Only then do I become aware of her. Rowan lies against me, her body relaxed and unguarded. Her back rests against my chest, her head tipped slightly beneath my jaw, her dark hair spilling across my shoulder. One arm drapes across my ribs, her palm resting over the scar beneath.
She’s asleep. Truly asleep.
Her breathing follows a slow, even rhythm, deep and unbroken, as if the world is expected to remain unchanged while she rests. Her shoulders rise and fall without tension. Her hand doesn’t tighten when I move slightly. Her legs remain loose and angled comfortably, not coiled for movement.
This isn’t about closeness or desire. Those are familiar enough that I know how to manage them. This is about trust.
She doesn’t stir when I move my arm beneath her, careful not to disrupt how she rests against me. She doesn’t tense or pull away. Her body accepts the movement as if it assumes my presence will remain constant.
I recognize what this means before I allow myself to think about it.
I remain still, listening to the sound of her breathing and the distant hush of the city beyond the windows. The early light hasn’t yet reached the skyline, leaving the room wrapped in a muted gray shadow. I study the curve of her hand where it rests against my ribs.
This sense of ease doesn’t belong in my world. And yet, here it is.
She wakes slowly, awareness easing in rather than snapping awake. Her fingers move first, a slight flex against my side, then her shoulders lift as she stretches. She inhales deeply, then exhales with a soft sound. Only then does she tilt her head, blinking once as she realizes where she is.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice still rough with sleep.
I lower my chin slightly, my mouth close enough that she hears me without effort. “Good morning.”
She turns just enough to look at me, her eyes still heavy, storm-gray softened by sleep. A faint crease appears between her brows, then smooths as memory settles into place.
“You’re awake,” she observes, as if this is new information rather than expectation.
“I rarely sleep past sunrise.”
Her mouth curves into a small smile. “That sounds exhausting.”
“I find it efficient.”
She makes a quiet sound of disagreement and turns again, rolling onto her side until she faces me fully. Her hand slides from my ribs to my chest, her fingers splayed, not searching or asking. Simply present.
For a moment, the world narrows. The city outside may as well not exist. There are no names to research, no alliances to test, and no threats to anticipate. There’s only this room, this woman, and the strange, unfamiliar calm that exists between us.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She studies me for a beat, then adds, “You say that like you already have it planned.”
“I do.”
She smiles, the expression faint but genuine. “Of course you do.”
I rise carefully, easing myself from the bed without jostling her. The space she leaves behind cools immediately, the difference grating more than it should. I pull on a shirt and move toward the kitchen, aware of her eyes following me.
The coffee machine whirs softly as it warms. The apartment remains quiet, orderly, and untouched by the outside world. I move through the routine without thinking, measuring grounds, filling the kettle, and arranging cups.
When I turn, she’s leaning in the doorway, her arms folded loosely, and dark hair falling over one shoulder in a way that would distract a less disciplined man.
“You sleep like you trust the world to behave itself for a few hours,” she remarks.
I glance at her. “Is that unusual?”
“For most people, no. For you, yes.”
