Waking up in our room feels different than waking up anywhere else has since the collapse, not because the danger is gone but because the space remembers me, and that familiarity settles into my bones before my eyes even open. I lie there for a moment listening to the packhouse breathe around us, pipes ticking softly in the walls, distant footsteps changing shifts, the low hum of life continuing without waiting for me to catch up, and I let myself stay still long enough to recognize that I am not bracing for impact anymore.
Adam is already awake.
I know that without looking, the bond steady and warm in a way that tells me he is alert but not alarmed, present rather than coiled, and when I turn my head slightly I see him sitting on the edge of the bed, boots off, sleeves rolled, quietly r
