After the ring, the house felt as if it had learned a new rhythm — one with a softer cadence under its floors. Not that the world outside softened; it roared and churned as always. But inside our walls the noise refracted differently. Paperwork still stacked, donors still whispered, the press still prowled, yet the small domestic things collected like light: a cup left cooling on the piano, Angel’s notebook thumbed at the corner, Conley’s tie draped over the banister. Those traces were the proof of us now as much as the signed documents.
I woke the morning the way I’d started to wake more often — slowly, with a sense of being seen. Conley was already up, his silhouette by the window reading an early brief. Angel’s breath came like a soft punctuation at my shoulder. When I stretched, his h
