Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, painting patterns across the hardwood floor. I woke slowly, wrapped in warmth and the scent of coffee brewing downstairs. For the first time in weeks, my body didn't jolt awake expecting danger.
The bedroom was everything Tony's grandmother must have been - warm, lived-in, and loved. Pictures lined the dresser showing a woman smiling with Tony's green eyes. I could see where he got his sharp jaw, the way he held himself like he owned whatever space he occupied.
Voices drifted up from the kitchen. Tony's low rumble and someone else -Thomas, maybe. I pulled on one of Tony's shirts, the soft cotton falling to my mid-thigh, and padded downstairs barefoot.
Tony stood at the stove flipping pancakes, his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a way that made my mouth dry. The tattoos on his forearms flexed as he worked - that compass rose his grandmother gave him, the Roman numerals marking violence he'd never wanted.
