(Ethan's POV)
The first thing I feel is her breath against my collarbone.
It's Warm, Slow and Unaware of the storm waiting outside our bedroom.
For a moment, I don't move. I don't check my phone or think about board seats, press cycles, or audit confirmations.
I just listen to the rhythm of Mira's breathing.
Last night, she fell asleep mid-sentence—some half-finished thought about optics and strategy dissolving into exhaustion. The week carved sharp lines into both of us, but in sleep, she looks unguarded. Almost soft enough to forget she stood in front of cameras and dismantled a narrative designed to destroy her.
My thumb traces the curve of her shoulder. She stirs. "You're awake," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep.
"I've been awake," I reply quietly. She shifts, lifting her head slightly, eyes still closed. "Thinking?"
"Always." A faint smile touches her lips. "About him?" I don't pretend not to understand. "Yes."
She exhales, slow and controlled. "You're calm."
