The morning light filtered through thin curtains, painting the walls of Sage’s kitchen in pale gold. Max’s nails tapped against the tile as he hovered by his bowl, tail giving a slow wag.
“Alright, alright,” Sage muttered, pouring food and watching him dig in. She cradled her coffee mug in both hands, the steam warming her face. For a moment, it felt almost normal—quiet house, her dog, a little peace.
But normal never lasted long.
Her stomach rolled again, subtle but sharp enough to make her grip the counter. She pressed a hand against her middle, jaw tightening.
Stress. That’s all it was. Too much noise in her head, too many nights with broken sleep. The bruises fading along her arms were proof enough of how close she’d come to losing everything. Stress made sense.
Still, the thought
