Matthew's P.O.V
Morning dragged its feet. The first sliver of sunlight finally slipped through the big glass windows in the living room, landing on the cold marble floor like it was trying not to wake anyone. It crept toward the couch, where I'd passed out last night with a half-finished glass of wine still sitting on the table. I stared at it, eyes heavy, head foggy.
I rubbed my face, trying to snap myself out of it. The apartment was dead quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you hear the tick of the wall clock like it's shouting. This wasn't how mornings usually felt in the packhouse. Something about today was off.
