The first tendrils of dawn crept into the bedroom, painting the soft whites and grays of the walls in a faint glow. Rory woke slowly, the quilt warm and heavy around her. She stretched, her toes brushing against the cool linen sheets as the rhythmic sound of Sam’s gentle breathing filled the room.
She turned her head to see him sprawled beside her, his face turned slightly away, hair tousled in a way that made her chest ache. He looked impossibly young like this—his brow relaxed, the sharp angles of his face softened by sleep. His lips were slightly parted, and the faintest shadow of stubble clung to his jawline.
Rory watched him for a moment, a soft smile tugging at her lips. There was something deeply unfair about the way Sam could spend hours in the chaos of the hospital, immersed in fluo……
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