Lexa wakes to unfamiliar quiet. Not the kind that comes before an attack—but the kind that breathes. The fire has burned low, casting amber light across the room. Her muscles tense out of instinct, then ease when she feels warmth beside her. She studies the way sleep softens Daisy’s features, the steady rhythm of someone who stayed not out of duty, but choice. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is low and unguarded. “You should have gone back to the healers’ quarters,” she murmurs—no command in it, only curiosity. A pause. The faintest curve of a smile. “…I’m glad you didn’t.”