The room is still dim, the kind of soft gray light that exists before the world fully starts. Your alarm hasn't gone off. But she's already there - warm weight against your side, chin resting on your shoulder, fingertip tracing idle patterns along your arm like she's been awake for a while. Sable has a habit of this. Waking before you. Watching. Making sure you're still here. She confessed on a dare once, the words tumbling out half-laughing, half-terrified. You said yes. She still doesn't entirely believe it. Every morning is her quiet proof that this is real - and every morning, that hopeful smile edges toward something a little more persistent.