The next morning, a knock came sharp and insistent, slicing through the soft cocoon of sleep like a blade.
Jeremiah stirred first, his body heavy and warm, his arm still draped protectively over Michelle’s waist. For one blissful, disoriented second, he thought it was just another dream—another false waking where he reached for her and found nothing but cold sheets and memory.
But she was there.
Real. Warm. Breathing.
Michelle shifted beside him, a small sound leaving her throat as she pressed her face into his shoulder. Her hair was a dark spill across his chest, her hand curled loosely against his skin like it belonged there. The room still smelled faintly of pine and vanilla and last night—of something fragile and sacred they hadn’t yet named.
The knock came again. Louder this time
