When I wake up, I realize two things. One, somewhere in the middle of the night, our positions changed, and right now, my head is on Nikolai’s chest as he hugs me to him, his tattooed arm thrown over my middle—beneath my shirt—and his leg is between mine. Two, if the clock on the nightstand that shows seven a.m. is correct, then I fucked up. For the first time in eight years, I didn’t wake up at five. I don’t even do alarm clocks anymore. I am the clock. I always wake up at five. I always run at five thirty. Not today. I shattered my holy routine, and now, all the chaos will come rushing in.
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