By morning, the support has shape.
That is the first thing I notice when I wake, the way the packhouse feels organised around me rather than merely aware of me, like pieces have been arranged overnight and are now waiting to see if I will step into the spaces prepared for me. The air itself feels expectant, not tense in the way of impending violence, but measured, careful, as if everyone involved has agreed on a script and is quietly relieved to finally be following it.
Layla stirs beneath my ribs, alert and steady, and the steadiness is what tightens my chest, because she feels it too.
This is coordinated, she says.
“I know,” I answer internally, sitting up slowly and letting my feet touch the floor, grounding myself in the familiar chill of stone.
I shower first, deliberately slow,
