The following morning, by five, the room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the table lamp barely piercing the shadows cast by the heavy curtains. The pale, muted morning light that filtered through the folds gave the space a hazy, indistinct quality. Sleep slowly slipped from Selina's eyes as she shifted deeper into the mattress.
A soft, weary yawn escaped her lips, her eyes still firmly shut as she stretched toward the space beside her. Her arms reached forward, searching for the comfort of her bolster as usual. She drew it closer, draping one leg over it, rubbing her cheek against it. But the edge of the mattress met her instead, leaving no space to shift without brushing against something — someone.
Her fingers slid over fabric—cotton, not silk—and beneath it, something firm and unmistakably alive.
"Why does this pillow feel so hard…?" she murmured drowsily. "And warm…"
Still half-lost in sleep, her hands continued moving, closing around a rigid edge of muscle.
