NATE'S POV
The morning did not arrive with a roar. It didn't come with the concussive force of a missile or the frantic, rhythmic blinking of a server alert. Instead, it arrived as a thin, pale silver line on the horizon, a sober, liquid light that felt like a quiet apology from the Atlantic for the violence of the night before.
I woke slowly, my body feeling heavy, anchored to the high-thread-count sheets by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that even the most expensive mattress couldn't fully alleviate. My shoulder throbbed with a dull, echoing ache, a phantom reflection of the strain I'd put it through while pinning Clara down, but the sharp, jagged edge of the night's terror had smoothed into something else.
