The 7 AM alarm possessed the same personality as every other alarm in the facility, which is to say none whatsoever. Or maybe that was the personality. Some designer, somewhere, had apparently concluded that sufficient volume eliminated the need for emotional investment, and the system had committed to that philosophy with admirable consistency.
Proxy was already awake before it sounded.
Nyx was on top of him. Not metaphorically. Literally.
He'd been aware of that since sometime during the night, at the vague hour where consciousness briefly surfaces to check whether the world is ending and instead finds a girl asleep against your neck. After that, awareness had refused to leave again, which felt unfair.
Her head rested beside his throat. Her weight was spread across him with the calm certainty of someone who had chosen this position and then slept extremely well because of the decision. Her hair touched his shoulder, warm and loose.
The alarm sounded.
