Pierce was already awake when the sun started creeping through the blinds.
He had been for a while.
The apartment was quiet in that early morning way that made every small sound feel louder—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint click of the thermostat turning on, the distant rush of a car passing outside. Pierce sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor while the ache in his chest slowly made itself known.
It wasn’t sharp anymore. The hospital pain had been sharp. This was different—dull, deep, like a bruise that lived under the bone.
He pressed his palm briefly just left of his sternum where the scar sat beneath his shirt. The skin there still felt strange, tight and slightly numb around the edges.
Pierce stood and pulled on a t-shirt
