Fallon
I wake to a hand on my shoulder.
It’s gentle, but it yanks me straight out of sleep. My body jolts, heart jackhammering before I can even remember where I am. I twist under the blanket, breath caught in my throat, and my hand flies up as if to protect my hair as I wait for the fingers that usually woke me with a fistful of it. It’s instinct now. It shouldn’t be, yet still I brace for the pain that doesn’t come.
“Fallon,” Leone says, softly, his palm cups my cheek, his thumb stroking below my eye. “It’s me. You’re home. You’re safe.”
I blink at him, disoriented. Then I take in the room, the muted sunlight filtering through the curtains, the cool weight of the sheets over my legs, the lingering ache in every muscle. And the man in the corner, back turned, fussing with a giant bag,
