Brad
I wake up before the alarm, which is annoying in itself.
But what’s worse is why.
It isn’t the usual early-morning discipline drilled into my bones. It isn’t my schedule pulling me awake like a leash. It’s the dull, gnawing pressure in my chest that refuses to let me sink back into sleep—like my body is keeping score, and it’s decided I don’t get rest until I pay up.
The house is still dark. Quiet. Too quiet for the morning after a gala.
Mia is curled against me.
She’s warm, soft, breathing slow. Her hair is everywhere—across the pillow, across my shoulder, tangled against my shirt like she fell asleep mid-thought and her body just… let go. There’s no tension in her face right now. No flinch. No guarded look. No tight jaw like she’s bracing for impact.
Peace looks terrifying on
