Camilla's POV...
The light is a liar.
It bleeds through the heavy velvet curtains, painting warm, false promises across the cold marble floor.
It's morning already. The words echo in the hollow space behind my ribs, a condemnation.
I swore I wouldn't sleep. I promised myself I would just watch him. That my eyes would be open, unblinking, a sentinel against the night. Make sure he breathes. Make sure the steady rise and fall of his chest continues, that he's still here, with me, in this room.
But my body betrayed me. My eyes, heavy as stones weighted with guilt, slid shut somewhere around four AM—the witching hour when resolve crumbles to dust.
And now the sun is here, an unwelcome intruder, and he's still asleep beside me, and the realization is a sickening plunge: I've wasted hours. Precious, stolen, irreplaceable hours I could have spent drinking him in, memorizing the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, the way his breath whispers past his lips.
