Morning reached gently and cautiously through the panoramic windows of the suite. It didn't intrude, didn't wake with force—it was simply present, like a curious guest tiptoeing across the room while everything else still slept. The city lights were already flickering, the pale shadow of high-drifting clouds slipped past the ledge and touched the edge of the living room couch.
The couch where Lennox Graves lay.
His first thought wasn't sharp. Reality didn't strike. It didn't bring with it an oppressive to-do list or the immediate tension his body had grown so used to over the years. The usual morning defenses... didn't come.
Instead, there was just a feeling.
A strange, soft pressure on his chest. Something warm, silky, unmoving—unlike anything he'd ever known. He blinked. The ceiling
