WHAT HIS BODY DOES WITHOUT PERMISSION
BELLA'S POV
Sunday arrived with the particular quality of light that belongs only to that day.
Not better light than Saturday, not worse, just unmistakably Sunday light, which is somehow both fuller and more forgiving than the working week's version, slower to move across the floor, more willing to stay in one place. The curtains in my room were heavy enough to keep most of it out, but some came through the gap at the edge, a thin gold line on the floorboards that had moved approximately four inches by the time I gave up on sleep and lay on my back staring at the ceiling instead.
Eight-twelve, according to my phone.
Mum would be asleep until at least ten. She had a Sunday habit of sleeping long and well, which she'd always explained as catching up
