EDEN Hayden is asleep beside me, sprawled on his back, one arm flung across the pillows, the other resting loosely over his stomach. His chest rises and falls in the deep, even rhythm that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. The lines around his eyes are softer in sleep, the tension he still carries in his jaw during the day melting away. For a moment I'm reminded of how many versions of him I've known: the boy who broke me before he understood the cost, the stranger who came back carrying guilt and obsession, and now this one who's now completely mine. I shift carefully so I don't wake him, propping myself on one elbow. My fingers find their way to his hair, threading through the dark strands slowly, gently. Looking at him doesn't hurt anymore. That realization settles in my chest like a stone shaped by years of river water. It used to ache every time I remembered the photos, the signature, and the bet. The way I stood at his father's gate in the rain, nin
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