Morning arrives differently after a line has been crossed, not louder or brighter, but heavier in a way that presses awareness into every small movement, and I wake slowly, tangled in warmth that no longer feels accidental or provisional. Adam’s arm is draped over my waist, his hand resting at my hip with an ease that speaks of sleep rather than intention, and for a moment I lie still, staring at the ceiling while the packhouse breathes around us, pipes clicking softly in the walls and distant footsteps marking the early shift change below.
The bond hums beneath my ribs, deeper than it was before, not sharper or more demanding, just fuller, like something that has finally settled into the shape it was always meant to occupy. I expected aftershocks, a spike of sensation or a sudden imbalan
