Silveria woke up to sunlight and the strange feeling of being watched.
She opened one eye. The armchair had been dragged right beside the bed. Damien sat in it with his head tipped back against the cushion and his arms crossed over his chest. His sweater was wrinkled. A dark shadow of stubble covered his jaw. He was asleep, finally, and he looked like a man who had lost a long fight with a chair.
She lay very still.
Last night came back in pieces. The rock. The handkerchief. The soup. The balcony, and his arm around her, and the way he had said *I would.* She didn't remember going to bed. She remembered only a warm weight against her cheek, and being carried.
*He carried me.*
Heat crawled up her neck. She slid out from under the blanket as quietly as she could, found her sketchbook, and sat cross-legged on the end of the bed. She told herself she was just going to draw the view from the window.
She drew him instead.
