Clarice woke up to a peaceful morning, free from the nightmares that often plagued her sleep.
Ivan still slept soundly on the living room sofa, looking remarkably different from his waking self. He lay on his side, the burgundy of the sofa highlighting his sharp profile. The blanket had fallen to the floor, his shirt rumpled, revealing his lean waist.
Clarice hesitated, not wanting to disturb him, but quietly moved closer, intending to retrieve the blanket from the floor and cover him.
As she drew closer, she froze.
There, on Ivan's waist, was a faint, bluish birthmark.
Eric had an identical one.
Could they be...?
A thought, sudden and sharp, struck Clarice like a bolt of lightning.
“What time is it?” Ivan stirred, sensing her presence, his eyes flicking open.
“Seven,” she replied
