November 17, Sunday

MORNING SUNLIGHT spilled across my bed, warming the tangled sheets and Sawyer's bare shoulder beside me. His breathing was deep and steady, one arm draped protectively around my waist. The familiar scent of his skin—cedar and coffee and something uniquely him—made me feel safe, grounded.

"Thank you for staying," I murmured, tracing the constellation of freckles on his shoulder. "I feel silly now, being so scared."

His eyes opened, green as grass in the morning light. "Don't." He pulled me closer, his calloused fingers gentle against my skin. "Though I have to say, you're seriously affecting my productivity."

"Oh?" I smiled, settling into the warmth of his embrace.

"Mmm." He pressed a soft kiss to my temple. "There are at least three headstones waiting for new footers in the graveyard. But lying here with you..." His hand traced lazy circles on my back. "Much better way to spend a Sunday morning."

I tilted my face up to his, drinking in the tenderness in his expression. When our lips met, the kiss was unhurried, a slow dance of shared breath and gentle touches. His hands tangled in my sleep-mussed hair as mine found the strong planes of his back.

"The dead can wait another day," he whispered against my lips. "Right now, I want to feel alive."

The sheet rustled as he pulled it over us, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy. Sunlight filtered through the white cotton, casting everything in a soft, dreamy glow. His heartbeat echoed steady and strong against my palm.

"I love the way you look in the morning," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "All soft edges and sleepy smiles."

I pressed closer, savoring the solid warmth of him. Here, wrapped in sheets and sunshine, the mysteries of Irving felt distant and unimportant. No empty graves or midnight ceremonies could touch this quiet moment of connection.

His fingers traced the curve of my cheek, my jaw, my neck—reverent touches that spoke of caring rather than possession. When he kissed me again, I tasted promises and possibility.

The world beyond my bedroom could wait. Right now, there was only this—the gentle rhythm of our breathing, the play of light through cotton, the way his hands knew exactly how to hold me.

Sometimes the simplest magic was the most powerful.