Waking up in his bed again felt like exhaling after holding my breath for too long. The morning light cut through the curtains in a soft, golden slant, and the sheets smelled like him: soap, cedar, and something steadier that had always made me feel safe. I blinked against the light, curled closer, and ran my palm slowly across his bare chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. I could hear the faint hum of the city outside the window, distant and harmless, like the world had finally paused just long enough to let me rest.
He looked younger in sleep, less burdened by everything he usually carried. His brow was smooth, free of the weight of command or compromise. His hair was messy against the pillow, and his mouth slightly open, breaths slow and deep. I knew I should let him rest
