The following morning, Don woke to a voice—not loud, not urgent, just present.
"Good morning, Don."
He groaned into the pillow.
No alarm. No vibration. Just Winter.
He rolled onto his back and blinked at the ceiling, eyes dry, head heavy. His body felt used. Not sore—used.
He pushed himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Man…" he muttered under his breath. "To think they'd team up on me two more times…"
He yawned wide enough for his jaw to click. "Did something happen?"
"You left your phone on silent," Winter replied evenly. "You were about to miss a message from Miss Claire."
That got one eye open properly.
Don turned his head toward the dresser. The digital clock glowed back at him.
6:23 AM.
He exhaled through his nose. "She's really a morning person."
"What does the message say?" he asked, voice still rough.
