I wake to the sound of rain.Not the gentle drizzle of spring — the hard, insistent rain of winter, the kind that drums against the windows and makes the world outside disappear. Celeste is still asleep, her hand on my chest, her breathing slow. Pippin is curled at her feet, his small body a warm weight against her legs.I don't move.I used to think mornings like this were wasted time. Hours I could have spent planning, executing, staying ahead of the people who wanted to destroy me. Now I understand that the opposite of destruction is not survival. It's stillness. The ability to lie in bed while the rain falls, while the woman you love sleeps, while the dogs dream of chasing things they'll never catch.This is not wasted time.This is the point.---Celeste wakes slowly.Her eyes open, unfocused at first, then finding mine. She blinks, smiles — that small, private smile that's just for me."Morning," she says."Morning.""The rain.""The rain.""I love it.""I know."She stretches,
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