Morning light slipped through the curtains in pale gold ribbons, stretching across tangled sheets and bare skin.
Camille woke first.
For a few seconds, she didn't move.
Gabriel's arm was heavy around her waist, his breathing slow, steady against her shoulder. In sleep, he looked younger. Less controlled. The sharpness of him softened by rest.
She studied him carefully.
Last night had been intense. Certain. Chosen.
But morning was different.
Morning required staying.
Her fingers traced lightly over his wrist where it rested against her stomach. Strong. Warm. Real.
She wasn't used to this.
Not the intimacy — she could handle that.
The quiet after.
The part where people reconsider.
His eyes opened slowly.
He didn't pull away.
Didn't shift like a man surprised to still be there.
Instead, he watched her watching him.
"You're analysing," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
"Maybe."
A faint smile ghosted his lips.
"Conclusion?"
She hesitated.
"That I don't usually wake up this close to someone."
He tightened his arm slightly.
"I don't usually stay."
Her gaze flicked to his.
"Why did you?"
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at her like he was measuring the weight of honesty.
"Because leaving would've felt like retreat," he said quietly. "And I don't retreat from things I want."
Her heartbeat shifted at that word again.
Want.
She rolled onto her side, facing him fully now. The sheet slid lower, but neither of them reached to fix it.
"This doesn't mean I stop protecting myself," she said softly.
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"You might."
"No." His thumb brushed lightly along her hip. "I like that you don't need me."
"And if one day I decide I don't want you?"
His jaw tightened just slightly.
"Then I'll know I lost you fairly."
That answer surprised her.
No dominance. No arrogance.
Just fact.
She studied him again, searching for cracks.
Instead, she found steadiness.
"You don't like losing control," she said.
He gave a quiet exhale. "No."
"Then don't confuse control with care."
His eyes darkened — not with anger, but recognition.
"I'm learning," he admitted.
That might have been the most vulnerable thing he'd said yet.
Silence settled again, but it wasn't heavy.
It was comfortable.
He leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead.
"You're not surviving me," he murmured. "You're building with me."
Her fingers curled lightly into his shoulder.
She didn't answer.
But she didn't pull away either.
And that, for now—
Was enough.