The room was quiet now, the kind of quiet that follows a storm when the wind has torn everything loose and then, exhausted, simply stops.
Moonlight spilled through the arched windows in silver sheets, turning the tangled linens into pale hills and valleys across the wide bed. The air still carried the warmth of their bodies, the faint salt of sweat, the lingering trace of lavender crushed into skin and sheets alike.
Atlas lay on his back, one arm curled beneath his head, the other wrapped loosely around Claire as she rested against his chest. Her purple hair spilled over his shoulder like spilled ink; her breath was slow and even, but he knew she wasn't asleep. Her fingers moved in small, absent circles over an old scar just beneath his ribs—a burn from a demon king dying light, pale and raised against the darker marks of blades and claws.
He stared at the ceiling beams, watching shadows shift as clouds crossed the moon. Peace, he thought, tasted almost like fear.
