She sleeps easily.
Curled slightly toward the edge of the bed, like she's unsure how much space she is allowed to take.
I move from the chair to the side of the bed without thinking about it, lowering myself to sit on the edge. The mattress dips, subtle but enough to shift her breathing. She stirs, a soft sound in the back of her throat, then settles again.
I don't touch her.
I want to.
That's the first thing that tells me this is already wrong.
The room feels smaller like this.
Not cramped — contained. The territory hums low, attentive, but not intrusive. It isn't pressing in. It's watching me instead.
That's new.
I study her face in the dim light.
The lines that hold tension when she's awake have eased.
She looks younger like this.
More fragile. Not weak — unguarded.
I reac
