The first morning of summer vacation arrived like a reward Eli had not asked for.
No alarm. No uniform. No reason whatsoever to open his eyes before he wanted to. For a boy who had spent thirteen years waking up before dawn to the sound of a drill sergeant's voice or the cold click of a gun being loaded two bunks away, this kind of silence was almost offensive in how good it felt.
He lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling of Roman's guest room, and decided that normal life was, objectively speaking, extremely decent.
The room smelled like cedar wood and the faint, lingering cologne that clung to everything in the Vale household. Morning light pressed through the curtains in soft gold strips, landing across the blanket tucked to his chin. Somewhere downstairs, there was the distant clatter of a kitchen being used.
His phone buzzed.
He did not reach for it.
It buzzed again.
He continued not reaching for it.
