The sense of wrongness starts quietly, so understated that I almost mistake it for the residue of restless sleep, and that is what unsettles me most as awareness seeps back in, because my instincts are rarely subtle unless whatever is approaching has already accounted for resistance. I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the packhouse breathes around me, pipes ticking softly in the walls, distant footsteps marking a shift change below, and the bond humming low and even beneath my ribs in a way that feels deliberately calm.
Too calm.
Adam is asleep beside me, his breathing steady and unguarded, and the familiarity of that should reassure me, but instead it sharpens my attention, because comfort has become something I no longer trust at face value. I roll onto my side care
