Morning came in pieces.
First as a dull ache in Aiden's spine.
Then as a thin bar of grey light pressing along the edge of his eyelids.
Then as the quiet realization that he was still on the floor of a laundry‑adjacent safehouse in Twelve‑Lower, not in the tower he'd grown up in.
He opened his eyes.
The door was where he'd left it.
Still closed.
The kids were a pile of limbs and blankets in the corner, Nia's foot dangling off the mattress, Tal sprawled on his stomach, Rell on his side clutching the notebook like it might try to run.
Rin snored softly under a jacket near the opposite wall, one hand resting on an offline recorder.
And Kael—
Kael was still there.
Curled on the blankets by the window, one arm flung over his eyes, bandaged hands resting on his chest.
Breathing.
Aiden watched his ribs move.
In.
Out.
Each rise and fall shaved a sliver off the knot in his chest.
He hadn't slept much.
He rarely did.
