Some mornings are just silent.
Not sad. Not heavy. Just quiet—and sacred.
That morning was just like that. In this kind of scenario, where everything significant was contained in the space between them, words would have been weightless. They dressed and went about their morning routine with the coordinated grace of two people who had become accustomed to each other's rhythms. They had drifted awake with the sun and reached for each other in the faint morning light.
While Regan was grinding coffee beans, Lila looked at his hands—the same hands that had built their bed, that had drawn constellations on her skin, that had learned to care for things that were growing patiently. With the heady scent that had come to characterize every day they spent together, steam rose from their cups into
