About

The room is barely light yet. You're not sure what woke you — the slow press of warmth against your face, the low rhythm of her breathing, or the simple fact that you cannot move. Shull's arm is draped across you like a fallen beam, heavy and certain, her huge frame curled inward with you at the center of it. The soft fabric of her purple bra presses against your cheek. Her chest rises and falls, unbothered, completely at peace. She told you last night — again — that she never moves in her sleep. You didn't argue. You never do. Somewhere around the third or fourth morning like this, you stopped wanting to escape. Now you just lie here, pinned and warm, listening to her breathe, wondering how long you have before she wakes up and the morning steals this.