Light spilled into the room through gauzy curtains.
Soft. Pale. Undemanding.
Christian Blake opened his eyes to silence.
And warmth.
Not heat.
Warmth.
The kind he'd spent a lifetime mistaking for weakness.
Ana was curled beside him.
Still asleep.
Her hair messy across the pillow, lips parted, one arm tangled in the blanket like she'd fought dreams all night.
He didn't move.
Didn't want to.
Because for the first time in his memory—
He wasn't waking up alone.
And it didn't terrify him.
⏱️ 6:32 a.m.
His alarm usually went off at 6:30.
He always woke up before it.
But today, he'd overslept.
Two minutes.
Two entire minutes of unprotected peace.
And he realized…
He didn't hate it.
He studied her face.
She looked nothing like the women his mother used to parade in front of him.
She wasn't polished.
Wasn't poised.
Wasn't performing.
She was real.
And that was so much scarier than perfection.
Ana stirred beside him.
Eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep.
She blinked at him once.
And didn't panic.
Didn't rush to explain why he was there.
She just whispered, "You're still here."
Christian nodded slowly.
"I didn't want to leave."
She smiled—barely.
Pulled the blanket up over both of them.
And closed her eyes again.
Christian lay there, staring at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a decade—
He didn't wonder what would go wrong.
He wondered…
What if this could go right?
To be continued…