The light was already bleeding through the curtains.
Not a blinding burst of sunlight—just that soft, golden hue that crept in slow and silent, gently casting long lines across the sheets. Damien stirred, his senses surfacing in fragments. No alarm. No sharp jolt. Just a strange, unfamiliar stillness.
And warmth.
His eyes opened slowly.
The ceiling above him was familiar—the same ornate molding, the faint shimmer of the chandelier overhead. But something was off. Off not in the way of threat, but in the way of pause—as if the world had waited for him, just this once.
Then it hit him.
The light.
It was already morning.
Really morning.
He turned his head slowly to the side, almost cautiously—as though confirming a suspicion rather than discovering something new.
There she was.
Elysia.
