Morning came slowly.
The others rose first. Eli moved with the residual stiffness of the night before, muttering something practical about the fence post as she dressed. Clara was quieter, her usual precision slightly softened by lingering exhaustion.
They left the bedroom together after brief, unremarkable touches—Eli's hand on Atlas's shoulder, Clara's fingers brushing his wrist. Neither lingered. The message was clear: the earlier hours were finished, and the day belonged to ordinary work.
Lara stayed.
She waited until the door closed and the sound of footsteps faded down the stairs. Then she turned fully toward Atlas in the grey morning light.
The gold flecks in her eyes were sharp. She reached out and traced the darkest bruise on his throat again, slower this time, as if measuring how long it would take to fade.
"They're gone," she said. "For now."
Atlas watched her. The air between them felt heavier than it had in the dark.
