Morning comes quietly.
No dramatic wake-up. No alarms blaring. Just light creeping through the curtains and the slow realization that I didn’t sleep as much as I pretended to.
Ethan is already awake. I know because his breathing is different. Lighter. Controlled. The way it always is when he’s thinking.
I stay still. My body pressed into his, his arm still around me like nothing is wrong. Like last night didn’t c***k something open in my chest.
He shifts first.
Careful. Gentle. Like he’s trying not to wake me, or maybe like he’s trying not to disturb whatever illusion we built overnight.
I open my eyes anyway.
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Morning.”
His voice says husband. His eyes say distance.
He kisses my forehead before getting out of bed. That small, automatic gesture. The one
