I sat up slowly, the movement drawing a low groan from the mattress—a mundane sound that felt indecently loud in the quiet room. It wasn't a sound meant for halls of marble or chambers warded by sigils.
It belonged to a place where furniture was expected to age, where objects complained because they were used.
I pulled the duvet tighter around my shoulders, more from instinct than modesty, shielding myself from the chill that crept in the moment the sheets shifted.
The air was cool, biting where fabric slid away from skin, carrying with it the damp, mineral scent of a city waking after rain. It smelled nothing like sanctified stone or incense.
It smelled lived-in.
My muscles answered the movement with a dull, widespread soreness—not the sharp, localized pain of a battle wound, not the warning flare of overdrawn mana, but something slower and more intimate.
The ache of shared weight. Of unfamiliar angles. Of proximity held longer than necessary.
Human closeness.
