Dawn came quietly.
Light slipped through the glass walls of Cael Alexander's penthouse in pale, diffused streaks, softening the edges of everything it touched. The city below had not yet fully woken --traffic moved slower, the usual noise reduced to a distant hum that barely reached this height.
Inside the bedroom, the air was still.
Galathea Brooks woke slowly.
This time, it was not with a jolt, not with panic.
But with awareness.
The first thing she noticed was warmth.
She was still close to him.
Her head rested against Cael's chest, one arm loosely draped across his torso. His breathing was slow, steady beneath her cheek, the quiet rhythm grounding in a way she hadn't expected.
For a moment, she didn't move.
She simply stayed there. listening, eeling.
Last night lingered --not as sharp images, but as a sensation. Heat. Control. The quiet certainty she had claimed and refused to relinquish.
This is mine.
The memory settled into her bones.
Galathea shifted slightly.
