The morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our suite, casting long, golden rectangles across the polished hardwood floors. The air smells of fresh timber, crushed pine, and the rich, dark aroma of brewing coffee. It is a peaceful, ordinary smell.
And for the first time in three years, I wake up to it without the immediate, crushing weight of the apocalypse pressing against my chest.
I lie still for a moment, listening to the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man beside me. Kade is on his back, his right arm draped heavily over my waist, his face relaxed in deep sleep. The harsh, silver-rimmed tension that used to define his features is entirely gone, replaced by the soft, vulnerable lines of a man who finally feels safe.
I shift slightly, wincing as a dull, familiar
