Morning came quietly for Dayo.
That felt almost rude.
After a night where the O2 had shaken, where millions of people had stayed awake behind screens, where clips of one open line had crossed languages faster than anyone inside JD Records could properly track, morning still arrived like nothing unusual had happened. Pale light touched the curtains. Somewhere beyond the apartment windows, London traffic began its ordinary argument with time.
Dayo had slept for less than three hours.
Luna was still beside him, turned toward the middle of the bed with one arm stretched across the space where their daughter had slept the previous morning. Their daughter was no longer there. Abishola had taken her earlier, probably after deciding both parents looked too useless to be trusted before coffee.
Dayo lay still for a moment, listening.
