EMMA'S POV
Morning arrived quietly, without ceremony, slipping into the apartment as if it understood the value of restraint. The light filtered through the tall windows in pale, deliberate bands, tracing the clean geometry of the space Emma had begun to think of as hers. The city beyond the glass stirred in muted layers—distant traffic, an occasional horn, the low hum of movement—but none of it felt intrusive. It felt contained.
Emma woke slowly, consciousness returning in careful stages. There was no jolt of alarm, no instinctive scan for danger. Just warmth. Weight. Breath.
Damian lay beside her, his arm draped loosely across her waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest a quiet anchor. Sleep softened him. It stripped away the sharp precision he carried through the world and left behind something more human, more vulnerable. His brow was smooth, his jaw relaxed. For once, he wasn't guarding anything.
