I notice the change before I want to admit it, because denial has always been easier than adjustment, and the bond has a way of exposing honesty whether I’m ready for it or not. It isn’t loud or sudden, not a spike or a flare that steals my breath, but a steady, directional pull that settles low in my chest and tugs with quiet persistence, like a tide that doesn’t announce itself but still rearranges the shoreline.
It starts when I wake.
My eyes open before the light fully reaches the window, and the first thing I register isn’t pain or stiffness or the usual mental checklist of what still needs healing, but orientation. I know where Adam is without thinking about it, not the exact room or corridor, but the fact of him, present and awake and moving somewhere in the packhouse with the cal
