I glanced up at the clock mounted on the wall to the side of my bed—the silver hands pointed to a quiet quarter past eleven. The room was cast in soft shadows, the only light seeping through the thin curtains pulled halfway across the window. I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the weight pressed against me.
Amira was still sleeping, her breathing slow and steady, her arms wrapped tightly around my torso as if she feared I’d slip away the moment she let go. The way she clung to me wasn’t born out of weakness—it was instinctive, protective, as if even in sleep she needed to anchor herself to something certain, something safe. And gods, I wanted to be that safety for her. I wanted to be the person she could hold on to without fear, without hesitation. I brushed a loose strand of her
