Morning came like a slow tide, the kind that curls around your ankles before you realize you’re standing in it. I lay still and listened to my apartment breathe—the soft tick of the radiator, the distant hum of plumbing somewhere above me, a siren far off smudging the edge of the city’s voice. For a while I didn’t move. I watched the thin ribbons of light slip through the blinds and lay across my comforter like careful brushstrokes. When I finally rolled onto my back, my hand found the ribbon beneath my pillow.
I brought it to my chest and let the silk warm under my palm. Last night lived in that texture: the pop and echo of leather on leather in the safehouse, the music of my own breath, his voice saying “again,” the way the empty room felt less empty when I stood inside it and chose not
