The kind that feels earned. The kind you collapse into after surviving something intense and coming out the other side intact.
My eyes open.
Morning light spills across the bedroom in soft bands, pale gold slicing through the half-drawn curtains. Dust motes float lazily through the air, catching the light.
The room looks… lived in. More than lived in, actually. It looks like time forgot about it for a while.
Sheets are tangled beyond saving, twisted and bunched in ways that tell stories I only half remember. Pillows are everywhere, some shoved against the headboard, some on the floor.
A glass of water sits empty on the nightstand, condensation ring dried into the wood. Another glass lies on its side near the bed, a faint water stain spreading beneath it.
Clothes are scattered in every direction like someone lost a very determined fight with gravity and gave up halfway through picking things back up.
And then, there’s them.
Dorian is asleep on his side, close enough that his knee brushes my thigh, the contact grounding even in sleep. His arm is bent awkwardly beneath the pillow.
Jude is sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his face, chest rising with deep, even breaths, the other hand resting loosely at his side.
Ryker is turned toward me, even in sleep, like something in him insists on keeping me in his line of sight. His brow is faintly furrowed, mouth set in that familiar hard line, as if part of him never quite stands down.
Protective. Always.
The scent hits me then. All of them.
Warm. Masculine. Layered together with my own in a way that feels intimate and overwhelming all at once.
It settles over me like a blanket pulled fresh from the dryer, heavy with comfort. I breathe it in without thinking, myshoulders dropping as my body responds before my mind can catch up.
For the first time in days, my thoughts line up properly.
That realization lands harder than anything else.
It’s over. The heat is gone.
I test it cautiously. I inhale, waiting for the familiar spike, the answering throb, the rush of need that hijacks everything else.
Nothing happens. Just breath moving in and out of my lungs. Just me, present in my own body again.
My body feels… wrung out. Like I have been stretched in every direction and finally allowed to settle. Tender. Used in the most thorough way possible.
When I shift slightly, awareness blooms everywhere at once, a low ache spreading through muscles and places I don’t usually think about.
It’s not painful. Not exactly. It’s just very, very present, like my body wants credit for everything it endured.
I push myself upright, careful not to wake anyone. The movement feels exaggerated, like gravity has a personal vendetta against me.
My legs wobble when I stand, knees protesting, calves tight. For a second, the room tilts, the edges blurring, then everything settles back into place.
Okay. Bathroom. That’s the next logical step.
Each step feels deliberate, measured. My skin is hypersensitive, like my nerves haven’t fully powered down yet. Every brush of air registers.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I stop short.
Oh.
There are teeth marks everywhere.
