Morning announced itself without permission.
Light spilled through the windows in a way that felt less cautious than the night before, brighter and more intrusive, as though the city had decided they had rested long enough. Zane woke slowly, not startled, not disoriented, but aware of warmth before thought.
Willow.
She was still asleep, her body curved toward his, one arm draped loosely across his chest as if it had settled there naturally and refused to leave. Her hair lay in soft disarray against his shoulder, her scent familiar enough now to feel grounding rather than overwhelming.
He did not move at first.
There was an ache in him, sharp and unexpected — not pain, but desire arriving too early, uninvited and unmistakably alive. His body, traitorous and sincere, responded as though nothing had happened to it at all, as though weeks of illness had been an interruption rather than a warning.
The irony was not lost on him.
