Morning arrives gently, as if it doesn’t know what it’s walking into.
The light is soft and hesitant, filtering through the thin curtains of the apartment in long, dusty ribbons. Amelia is already awake when she realizes she is; she isn’t thinking yet—just breathing, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft, rhythmic puff of Iris’s breath beside her. The room smells faintly of last night’s laundry soap and that cheap, vanilla candle Iris insists on lighting even when it’s burned down to a jagged nub of wax.
They lie on the bed facing each other, blankets tangled between their legs in a messy knot of shared space. The world outside their window is still tucked in silence.
“I think,” Iris says softly, her eyes half-closed and her voice thick with sleep, “if we ever get rich, I’m b
