The morning light spills into the living room like honey poured from a slow hand—pale gold, thick and warm, drifting through the glass wall in quiet streams. It catches the dust motes floating in the air, turning them into tiny suspended stars.
The room is still half-asleep, wrapped in the gentle silence of dawn.
I open my eyes slowly.
The ceiling greets me first—familiar and dark, framed by the golden lights that now seem dim beside the morning sun. Warmth spreads across my face. The couch is soft beneath me, the cushions shaped to my body from hours of stillness.
Then I feel it.
The weight on my chest. The warmth against my side. The slow, steady press of another body tangled with mine beneath the blanket.
I look down.
Silas is sleeping on me.
A blanket drapes over both of us—white, soft, kicked loose at the edges from restless sleep.
