Logan
The morning light filtering through the porthole was far too harsh for the tenderness of the moment.
I was drawn from my slumber not only by the bright sun peeking in through the window, but also by the sensation of movement beside me. Blinking against the invading light, I saw Ella pull away from our embrace. She was already up and looking for her clothes.
As the morning sun painted the room in soft golds, I pretended to be still lost in sleep, though my attention was entirely on Ella. I watched her silently move about the room, engrossed in her thoughts.
The oversized t-shirt she wore—one of mine—hung loosely on her, reaching mid-thigh and billowing gently as she moved. The contrast between the starkness of the shirt and her delicate frame was strangely endearing.
