|Gryphon's POV|
The morning finds us tangled in sheets that still carry the scent of her skin and the ghost of her moan, the air in the Asphodel suite heavy with the aftermath of something that feels less like s*x and more like resurrection, and as the city yawns beneath us with its promise of routine and ruin, I lie still, unwilling to break the quiet reverence that has settled over her sleeping form beside me—her arm draped over my ribs, her face half-buried against my chest, her breathing soft but steady in a way that tells me the nightmares didn't find her this time.
I could stay like this forever, counting the breaths she takes like they're holy, memorizing the slope of her spine with the same intensity I once reserved for bloodstains and exit routes, but the world doesn't let men l
