The first light of dawn crept through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft lines across the room. Luke's eyes opened before the sun had even reached the horizon—an old habit he hadn't managed to shake. For years, he'd lived as if sleep was a luxury, something to be stolen rather than enjoyed. Yet this morning, he didn't move right away.
He lay there, still and unhurried, feeling the gentle rhythm of Ilyrana's breathing against him. Her arms were loosely wrapped around his waist, her silver hair scattered across his chest like strands of moonlight. For once, there was no reason to rush—no plan to devise, no path to chase, no threat lurking just beyond the door. The silence was foreign, and yet comforting.
