I woke up in the middle of the night.
The room was too quiet.
Too still.
Only the faint sound of Mira's breathing filled the silence, soft and steady as she slept beside me.
I should've been sleeping too, but instead I lay awake on my side, staring at her in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds. Her hair—shorter now, darker—fell messily across her face. It framed her like some untouchable masterpiece, sharp edges softening in the stillness of the night.
God, two years hadn't changed a damn thing. She was still the most dangerous thing I'd ever laid eyes on. Not because of the fire in her words or the fury in her eyes, but because she could lie here, a breath away, and I felt stripped bare.
She stirred, shifting slightly, the sheets sliding down just enough to expose the smooth line of her shoulder. I had to force myself not to reach out and trace it. Not to pull her closer and bury my face in her neck until all I could taste and breathe was her.
