I woke up to the sharp, insistent trill of my phone cutting through the quiet morning haze. The sound drilled into my skull, pulling me from the deepest, most peaceful sleep I'd had in years. I tried to ignore it—tightening my arms around Kasteil instead, pressing my face deeper into the warm hollow of his neck. His steady heartbeat thumped against my cheek, slow and reassuring. This felt so good. Too good.
But the phone rang again. And again. Relentless. Who the hell was calling this early?
With a frustrated groan, I finally loosened my grip and stretched one arm toward the bedside table. My muscles ached in protest—everywhere reminded me of how thoroughly Kasteil had taken me apart and put me back together. Last night, after he'd changed the sheet, he'd gathered our scattered clothes, tossed them into the laundry hamper, and plugged both our phones in to charge side by side. Small, thoughtful things that made my chest feel strangely full.
