When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that the house was quiet.
Not dead, not cold—just… quiet.
Like it was holding its breath, too afraid to disturb what lay at the heart of it.
I blinked slowly, not quite ready to move, the scent of firewood and skin clinging to the sheets like perfume. My body ached in the best possible way—sore in places I didn't know could feel good. But more than that, I felt safe… clean… not dirty.
Which was weird.
Safety was never something I chased. It was something I resented. Everyone else seemed to take safety for granted, but I had never experienced it. I hated those people who had what I never could.
But here—here with them—I finally felt cared for.
I felt held.
The more I shook off the aftermath of sleep, the more I realized a few things.
