Warmth is the first thing I feel when I wake.
Not the blanket. Not the soft mattress. A different warmth. A steady one. A quiet one. Something that hums softly against my skin, as gentle as breath.
For a moment, I do not open my eyes. I just lie there, suspended between sleep and waking, wrapped in a softness I have not felt in years. It feels fragile, like a dream that will collapse if I move too fast.
Then I feel fingers in my hair. Slow. Careful. Almost reverent.
Damian.
My heart turns over in my chest. I open my eyes just a fraction, enough to see him in the dim morning light. He is leaning over me slightly, one arm under my pillow, the other hand moving gently through my hair.
His eyes are on my face.
But not in the way he watches me during a crisis, measuring my fear or my bre
