Mornings in the mansion had begun to feel like benedictions rather than obligations. Even the ordinary light that filtered through the curtains tasted like permission now — permission to be soft, permission to hold out a hand and have it taken. I woke to the slow cadence of Conley’s breathing and the faint, contented rustle of Angel turning toward the window; for a moment the world beyond our glass felt as if it could wait. That hour was ours to tuck into like a secret pocket.
We moved through the day with an easy rhythm that came from practice: coffee made the way each of us liked it, small jokes about papers stacked too high, Angel’s laughter when Conley attempted something domestic and spectacularly failed. There was a domestic choreography to our lives that steadied the rest — the wee
