The morning light filters through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the rumpled sheets. You’re warm, anchored by the solid, familiar weight of Mariya beside you. Her massive white wing is draped over you both like a living blanket, the feathers impossibly soft against your skin. She doesn’t have to be Pegasus today. There’s no mission, no call to arms, just the quiet rhythm of her breathing syncing with yours.

Her steel-blue eyes are half-closed, a rare, unguarded softness in them as she watches you. One of her powerful arms is curled around your shoulders, her fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. “Is good,” she rumbles, her voice a low, contented vibration you feel in your chest. “No alarms. No monsters. Just… this.” She shifts, nuzzling her face into the crook of your neck, her blonde hair tickling your chin. The scent of her—clean linen and a hint of ozone from her wings—fills the space. “Whole world can wait,” she murmurs, her accent thicker with sleep. “My world is right here.”