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She’s never been a morning person.
Night has always been her domain, her closest confidant. The darkness is a far better keeper of secrets than the unrelenting light of day. It swallows everything, the stolen glances exchanged across dimly lit taverns, the fleeting smiles that dance on her lips as she reels them in, the whispered promises that drip like honey from her tongue but rot in her chest. Night hides the tender touches and the stolen kisses she trades so easily, all part of the intricate web she spins to ensnare her marks. It buries the lies she tells, the roles she plays, the lives she takes.
The night is generous that way. It conceals her sins. It shields her from her own reflection in the mirror, cloaking her in a comforting veil of shadows that doesn’t judge her the way the daylight might. It hides the jagged scars on her skin and, more importantly, it hides the deeper wounds carved into her soul. The darkness doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t demand explanations or penance. It lets her exist without the weight of scrutiny, and in return, she allowed it to devour the person she once was.
But her nights have changed.
It’s been some time since her nights carried the weight of shame and regret. Now, they are sweet, an intoxicating blend of shared breaths and unrestrained passion. They no longer reek of blood and sour wine, but instead are perfumed with the comforting scents of citrus and leather, of rosemary, of coffee and cinnamon, of sweat and warmth.
They feel different, too. They feel like the caress of silk against her skin, like strong, calloused hands threading through her hair, like lips trailing slowly down her neck, over her collarbone, across her chest, and lower still. They sound different, no longer haunted by her own ragged breaths and stifled cries, but instead filled with racing heartbeats, hushed confessions, breathless laughter, soft whimpers, and unabashed moans.
Where once there was only the cold emptiness of a bed that swallowed her whole, now there is the comforting weight of tangled limbs and warm bodies wrapped tightly around her. She smiles to herself in the dim light, a faint, almost imperceptible curve of her lips. Once, she hated being held like this. The press of another’s body against her, their arms wrapped too tightly, used to suffocate her. It made her feel trapped, helpless. Vulnerable.
But now?
Now, she doesn’t want to move. She’s pinned between them, and instead of drowning, her heart feels full, her chest radiating a comforting warmth. The gritty voice of fear that once clawed at her in the dead of night is silent, its whispers drowned out by the steady rhythm of their breathing. Two heads rest against her, one crowned with soft, golden strands, and the other with dark, unruly curls. The sun and the moon. She threads her fingers through both with tenderness, her touch reverent, as though committing this moment to memory, burning it into her soul.
The first pale rays of dawn filter through the curtains, creeping hesitantly across the room. The grey light brushes over their tangled forms, illuminating skin still flushed from the night before.
She isn’t a morning person.
Viago is.
Soon, his lashes will flutter, and piercing blue eyes will meet hers. He’ll rise quietly, careful not to disturb her too much, and begin his day with the unshakable discipline he carries like a second blade. Zevran, on the other hand, will linger for a while. He’ll stretch like a contented cat, his golden skin glowing in the faint light, before teasing her awake with playful quips and slow, lingering kisses. He’ll saunter off eventually, as he always does, with a lazy grace that’s so uniquely his, leaving her wanting and smiling all at once.
But not yet.
For now, this moment is hers. This perfect stillness is theirs. She breathes it in, memorizing every detail; the peaceful curve of Viago’s brow, the slight furrow in Zevran’s as he dreams, the way their breathing syncs with hers. Viago’s hand rests possessively over her stomach, his fingers splayed across her skin as if to anchor her there. Zevran’s arm drapes over her waist, his hand reaching out instinctively, bridging the space between him and Viago even in slumber.
Her lips curve into a genuine, unguarded smile. She leans down, pressing a soft kiss to each forehead, lingering long enough to feel their warmth against her lips, grounding her in this rare and fragile peace.
She’s not a morning person. She never has been. But mornings like this? With them ?
They’re her favorite moments of the day.