Reed
I knew she was awake.
She was lying perfectly still against my chest, her breathing slow and measured in a way that would have convinced anyone else she was asleep.
But not me.
I had spent five years memorizing my wife.
Every expression.
Every silence.
Every tiny shift in the tension of her body.
When Wendy genuinely slept beside me, she softened completely. She melted into me without thinking about it. Her face would instinctively bury itself against my collarbone, her body growing heavy and warm beneath my hands like some subconscious part of her trusted me even when her mind couldn’t.
Tonight, there was none of that.
She felt rigid.
Contained.
Like she was holding herself together with deliberate effort.
Her hands were curled tightly against her own chest instead of re
