FIA
Morning filtered through the curtains and painted the ceiling in a pale wash of light. I had been awake for a while, propped on one elbow, watching him breathe.
His chest moved in a slow rhythm. One arm rested above his head, fingers loose, his body arranged in careless comfort. Sleep stripped him of the sharpness he carried during the day. No authority in his expression. No calculation. His mouth was slightly parted, his lashes resting against his cheek. He looked younger this way. Unburdened.
I had already taken care of what needed doing downstairs. Thorne met me in the hallway. Our voices stayed low. The plastic bag passed between us with deliberate care, both of us aware of what it represented without speaking it aloud. He did not question me. He only said he would keep it until I asked for it. His eyes held judgment, worry, and loyalty all at once. I accepted all three and went back upstairs.
