Morning reached my bedroom through the narrow space between the curtains, landing across Nina's borrowed shirt and uncovered legs. She woke beside me without pretending our late-night decision had already survived daylight.
"Here?" I asked, borrowing the workshop word before either of us left the bed.
"Here, sore at one, emotionally uncertain," Nina replied, then studied my face before returning the question.
I reported no pain, steady desire for her, and anxiety about reopening the promised conversation. Naming Thea before breakfast felt unromantic, though avoiding her would make last night's honesty temporary.
Nina requested fifteen minutes for washing, water, and food before discussing any permission. I agreed without reading delay as rejection, then prepared toast while she used my bathroom.
She returned wearing her rust dress without the belt, carrying my clean shirt over one arm. Her hair remained loosely tied, while her expression held none of last night's warm certainty.
