Grace
I wake slowly, wrapped in a familiar warmth and the quiet hum of a house that hasn’t quite stirred yet.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am—just that I’m safe. That I’m held.
Dawson’s arm is still around me, heavy and protective across my back, his hand resting at my waist like it never once considered letting go. The blankets are tangled around us, cocooning us in a nest of soft cotton and leftover heat. The early winter light spilling pale and soft through the curtains, painting everything in muted gold, the kind of light that makes the world feel gentle.
He’s still asleep.
It’s strange how different he looks like this—lashes resting against his cheeks, jaw slack, all that steady control softened by sleep. The faint scruff along his jaw catches the light, and I have the
