The morning light comes slow through the curtains, rinsing the study in that soft, forgiving gold that always makes our house look kinder than the world expects. I wake with Conley’s arm curved across my waist and Angel’s hair a warm pillow against my shoulder. For a moment there is nothing to prove—no donor reports, no press lines to smooth—only the small, ordinary fact of being held. I savor it like a secret.
We move through the morning with that careful slowness reserved for the times we have decided to be kind to ourselves. Conley makes coffee the way he does when he isn’t trying to impress anyone: practical, unpretentious, with the comfortable cadence of someone who knows exactly how I like it. Angel hums while she arranges herbs from the conservatory into a small jar, and the sound
