The house is quieter than it has been in days. Kellan took Jace and Rowan out early for something “errand like” that sounded suspiciously like strategic boredom prevention. Liberty left before sunrise to open the bakery, refusing to let fear be the first customer through her doors. Miles is still asleep on the couch, laptop closed for once, as if even he ran out of oxygen. And Dawson is in the kitchen, reading a therapy handout like it’s a field manual. I stop in the doorway and watch him for a second too long. He has his glasses on, thin, practical frames that make him look softer, more human, and the sight hits me with a tenderness so sharp it’s almost cruel. A man who has survived war, sitting at a kitchen table, learning how to breathe again on purpose. He looks up. Our eyes catch. It’s still new, the way eye contact carries more weight now, like the kiss gave everything a second meaning. “Morning,” he says, voice low. “Morning,” I reply, and my voice sounds like it’s ste
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