I wake to the feeling of warmth against my skin—unfamiliar and unsettling in the best way possible. Lorenzo's arm is draped across my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck. For a moment, just one stolen moment, I let myself exist in this space between sleep and waking, where nothing outside this bed matters.
The Chicago safe house is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic below. Morning light filters through the gaps in the blackout curtains, casting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. I should move. We have work to do. But my body feels heavy, sated, different somehow.
Everything is different now.
I shift slightly, and Lorenzo's arm tightens around me reflexively. Even in sleep, he's aware of me. Protecting me. The realization sends an unexpected flutter through
