Zekar woke to sunlight and warmth.
Not the heat of his own skin. That was always there, constant as breathing. This was different. This was the soft weight pressing against his chest, white hair spilled across his arm, breath warm against his collarbone. This was her.
For a long moment he did not move. He scarcely dared to breathe. He feared that any shift, any careless sound, might shatter whatever fragile dream this was. For eight long years he had dreamed of her. Countless nights he had reached for a ghost that vanished the instant he woke. This felt like those dreams. Too perfect. Too impossible to be real.
Yet she was warm. She was solid. And when he turned his head with the utmost care, he could see her face.
