Morning light spilled weakly through the tall industrial windows of Alistair Triste's studio apartment, pale and gray against the unmade bed and scattered restoration papers covering the low table near the couch. The city beyond the glass had already begun moving again. Traffic crawled steadily between buildings while distant sirens faded somewhere farther downtown beneath the constant hum of waking streets.
Inside the apartment, everything remained quiet.
Galathea Brooks woke slowly against warmth.
For several disoriented seconds, exhaustion blurred the edges of memory before reality settled back into place all at once. The oversized black shirt. The balcony doors cracked slightly open to let cool morning air drift inside. The steady rise and fall beneath her cheek.
Alistair.
Gods. Her eyes shut briefly.
Embarrassment arrived slower than grief these days, but apparently both still functioned.
