The morning light hit the edge of the curtain like a blade — sharp, merciless, gold. Tasmy didn’t need to open the window to know what kind of day it would be. The warmth on his face already said enough. A deep sigh left him as he glanced at the clock: barely six. Too early, but the kind of early that made sense for days like this.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing at the stripe of sunlight invading the room. The air felt heavy already, the silence before the storm. He turned, watching the small rise and fall of the blankets beside him — the steady rhythm that was both fragile and grounding.

Quietly, he rose, pulled the curtains tight, and fetched the bandages from the drawer. They were already prepared, folded neatly from the night before. He always knew when the sun would come hard. Habit, instinct, or maybe just the way her pain left echoes in his thoughts.

He lingered for a second, staring at the bandages in his hands, then muttered to himself, half bitter, half gentle, “Looks like we’ll be fighting the light again today.”

Then he smiled — small, resigned — and went to make everything ready before she woke.