Alex stirred.
His eyes opened slowly, blinking away the haze of sleep as morning light spilled faintly through the high window. The room was quiet, save for the soft, steady breathing of Nyxara—her head resting beside the bed, her body still in her tigress form, watching him closely.
She hadn't just woken up.
She'd been awake for a while.
Their eyes met.
She didn't speak at first, but there was something in her feline gaze—a silent concern, a quiet watchfulness that told Alex she'd been observing him for hours.
He shifted, attempting to sit up.
And that's when it happened.
Without even realizing it, his fist sank into the mattress with a dull, tearing sound. Not punching it—but phasing through it. His hand passed into the material like it was made of water—no resistance, no impact—until it reemerged from the bottom side of the bed.
Both of them froze.
