The morning light spills through the glass wall like something poured from a golden pitcher—warm, unhurried, sacred. It moves across the polished floor in slow, deliberate strokes, climbing the furniture, catching the edges of the room, and finally settling on the bed where we lie tangled together.
I watch him.
Silas's head rests on my arm, his face turned toward me, his breath soft and even against the quiet of the room. The light finds him the way it finds beautiful things—without effort, without intention, as if it has no choice but to linger. His brown hair catches the glow, each strand alive with a warmth that seems to hum beneath the surface. Messy from sleep, a few strands fall across his temple, soft as silk threads pulled loose from a tapestry.
