The morning light seeped weakly through the blinds, casting stripes across the rumpled sheets. Sheila stirred, blinking against the brightness, her body still heavy with the memory of the night before. Atticus lay beside her, one arm draped lazily across her waist, his breathing deep and steady. For the first time in weeks, she felt something fragile and quiet: peace.
Sheila didn’t move immediately. She let herself stay there, pressed close to him, tracing the curve of his shoulder with her fingers, feeling the warmth that lingered even as the city outside slowly came alive. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—and that alone was enough to make her heart tighten.
Atticus shifted, eyes opening slowly, meeting hers with that same intensity she had grown to both fear and crave.
“Morning,” he
