She woke before he did.
Gray light pressed against the curtains, thin and cold. Vincent was spooned tight behind her, his chest plastered to her back, his arm heavy across her waist pinning her in place. The lamp was off—she'd turned it off herself last night—and the room had settled into a heavy dark that felt almost safe for once. His breathing was slow and even, deeper than she'd ever heard it. The kind of slow that came from a man who had finally let every wall drop without meaning to, without realizing how exposed he looked with his body curled around hers like this.
She lay still. Heart kicking a little too hard against her ribs.
Asleep, he was harder to read, not easier. The sharp, deliberate edge that shaped every move he made when he was awake had melted away. Left behind something stripped raw. The scar on his temple caught the thin slice of morning light, pale against his skin. Her stomach twisted before she could stop it.
