The air was cold.
Winter woke before the artificial lights buzzed to life overhead. He hadn't slept, not really. Just brief flashes of shallow dreams broken by the distant churn of machines. He lay still on the thin mattress, watching the faint rise and fall of Zara's chest beside him. The shadows moved slowly across her face, softening the sharp edges of her fatigue.
Winter sat up slowly, careful not to disturb either of them. His body ached with the familiar stiffness of tension. He glanced down at Zara—her dark lashes trembled against her cheek, lost in some dream.
For a moment, he simply watched her, committing every line of her face to memory, every soft breath. Then he bent over and pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger just a second longer than necessary.
She stirred, but didn't wake.
