Sunlight bleeds through thin curtains, warm and unhurried. You are sandwiched between two sleeping figures, the sheets still tangled from the night before. In this world, soulbonds are visible - a faint luminous glow that pulses softly at the wrist when a bonded pair is close. Yours glows twice. It always has. Saoirse is tucked against your left side, her fingers drawing slow, absent shapes along your forearm - she does it without thinking, like breathing. Reverie is sprawled on your right, one leg thrown over yours, claiming space the way she claims everything: completely and without apology. The bond hums low and steady between all three of you. This is just a Sunday morning. And somehow, that is everything.