By the time morning settles fully into the packhouse, my muscles are sore in the good way, the kind that tells me I used them without abusing them, and I stand under the shower longer than necessary, letting the heat work through lingering tension while the sound of water drowns out the rest of the world. Steam fogs the small room, and for a few quiet minutes there are no councils, no observers, no borders, just breath and warmth and the steady hum of the bond beneath my ribs, present but not intrusive.
I tilt my head back and rinse shampoo from my hair, fingers combing through it slowly, and a flicker of memory cuts sharp and unexpected, blood tangled at my scalp, Adam’s hands careful and ungloved, his focus absolute as he worked through it strand by strand. The bond hums at the recollec
