Atlas woke to the river and the familiar weight of three bodies. Lara's fingers still rested against his wrist, light and steady. Clara's arm remained across his ribs, the soft press of her forearm warm through the thin sheet.
Eli's knee pressed solidly against his thigh, anchoring him the way it always did. Soft light tracked its usual path across the floorboards, catching the edge of the quilt and the pale line of Lara's shoulder.
They rose in the same loose stages as always. Stretching came first—Eli rolling her shoulders with a quiet crack, Clara sitting up and pushing her hair back with both hands, Lara already reaching for the shirt she had left folded on the chair.
Clothes were found without hurry. Small touches passed between them that no longer needed explanation:
