Sheila’s POV
The world comes back in fragments.
The hum of a car passing outside.
The smell of his skin on my pillow.
The weight of his arm, heavy, warm, possessive across my waist.
Brendan’s breathing is slow but not quite asleep. I can feel it how it changes when I move, how it deepens when I press back into him. His chest rises against my shoulder, steady and solid. The room is dim, the blinds filtering in slices of daylight that paint across the wall.
I lie there for a moment, just listening. The small sounds that mean nothing and everything the city below, the creak of the floor as the wind nudges the window. My mind tries to remind me of reality: class schedules, the unfinished notes on my desk, the messages I haven’t replied to. But his touch pulls me back to him. Every time.
