The morning arrived too quickly, as mornings always did when the night had been restless.
Ren woke before the sun had fully gathered itself over the horizon, and for a moment he remained still, listening to the house. The quiet was never truly empty in their home. It held small, living sounds, the soft settling of wood, the faint breath of the cooling air through the curtains, and the occasional distant rustle from the nursery wing where the babies were still asleep. It was a safe quiet, or at least it had been until Fang's unease had begun to settle over the household like a second shadow.
Ren turned his head on the pillow and looked at Fang.
Fang was awake already.
He was lying on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek, his purple eyes open and fixed on the dim line of dawn seeping through the curtains. Even in the low light, his expression was alert in that particular way Ren had come to know well, calm on the surface, but with every instinct sharpened beneath it.
