The morning sun pours through the gaps in the curtains, cutting bright lines across the floor.
I wake up slowly to find myself wrapped tightly against Bael's chest.
We are lying in the exact way we used to sleep before everything fell apart—my head resting right over his heartbeat, his heavy arm wrapped completely around my waist to keep me against him. He must have moved us like this in the middle of the night, after I finished the biscuits and his fever finally went down.
I lift my head a little, trying not to make a sound, thinking he is still asleep.
He isn't.
My heart jumps.
Bael is already wide awake. His gray eyes are clear, completely clear, no fever-dark, no rut-glaze, just gray and steady and looking directly at me from the pillow.
"Morning," he says. His voice is low and rough with sleep, but it sounds completely normal. Sane. Steady.
