Mila woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains. For a moment, she didn't move. She just lay there, taking inventory of the room, the bed, the weight of Dante's arm still around her waist.
He was awake. She could tell by the way his breathing had changed—deliberate now, controlled. Like he'd been lying there waiting for her to wake up.
"Morning," she said quietly.
His arm tightened around her. "Morning."
She turned to face him. His hair was disheveled, his jaw dark with stubble. He looked like he hadn't slept much, but his eyes were clear. Focused on her.
"You stayed," she said.
"Where else would I be?"
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of certainty that made her chest tighten.
She reached up and traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. He closed his eyes at the contact, like the simple touch was enough to ground him.
"Come on," he said after a moment. "Breakfast."
