The morning after that felt different too—but not in the way I’d once been trained to anticipate.
There was no emotional whiplash. No creeping doubt slipping in through the cracks. No urge to catalog every sensation and cross-check it against fear. Instead, there was continuity. A sense that the night before hadn’t been an event separate from the rest of my life, but part of it—woven in, not standing apart.
I woke again before Ray did.
This time, I let myself move.
I shifted carefully, not out of caution but consideration, easing onto my side so I could look at him properly. He slept deeply, one arm curved where I’d been moments before, fingers loose and unguarded. In sleep, the sharpness he carried in waking life softened. The vigilance receded. He looked younger like this. Less burde
