I surface from sleep like a man rising through dark water.
Slow. Unsteady. Unwilling.
My eyes open. Blink once. Twice.
The ceiling comes into focus—the same one I've stared at for years. Dim lights set into polished marble, their glow soft. Indifferent. They've watched me fall asleep a thousand times. They've never seen me like this.
Everything is where it should be. Everything is normal. Except for the weight on my chest.
Except for the warmth pressed against my side—like a second skin I never asked for.
I don't remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall is his crying—soft, broken breaths against my shirt, settling somewhere beneath my ribs.
Unwanted. Persistent.
Then nothing. A blank space. Darkness swallowing everything whole.
And now—this.
Silas's head still rests on my chest. Like something that landed without permission—and stayed.
