I woke to the kind of quiet I've been trying to build for years—no alarms, no runners, no distant sirens gnawing at the glass. Just the soft hum of the penthouse and the steady breath of the woman beside me.
Luna was already watching the blue-gray edge of dawn through the curtains, amethyst braid looped over her shoulder, golden eyes soft. She caught me looking and smiled the way mountains do when morning finally reaches them.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," I answered, and the word held more than it used to. I sat up, rolled my shoulders, and felt the faint ache that means your body remembers working for a living.
"Lines," she reminded me, warm, not stern.
"Lines," I agreed.
