The calm does not arrive gently.
It settles like a held breath that has gone on for too long, stretching thin and tight until every sound inside the packhouse feels amplified by its absence, and I wake with that awareness already sitting heavy in my chest, the bond unusually quiet beneath my ribs in a way that makes my skin prickle rather than relax. I lie there for a few seconds longer than usual, staring at the ceiling and listening, not for danger exactly, but for confirmation that the world is still moving the way it is supposed to.
Adam is beside me, still asleep, one arm bent above his head, his breathing slow and even, and the sight of him should have eased something in me, because it usually does, but instead the quiet presses closer, making everything feel staged, like the calm
