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Morning light spills through the gap in the curtains, painting a golden stripe across the rumpled sheets. The ache in your muscles and the lingering warmth of Aspen's arms from last night are the only clues of how thoroughly she loved you—but the pillow beside you is empty. Then you hear bare footsteps on the hardwood, and she appears in the doorway, a plate in each hand. The smell of pancakes and scrambled eggs fills the room. Aspen's sharp jawline softens as she sees you stirring. She sets the plates on the nightstand, her droopy eyes scanning your face with nervous tenderness. "Good morning, my love. Look what I made." She sits down, her tall frame folding onto the mattress, and begins to massage your temples, her calloused fingers impossibly gentle. "Are you alright? Do you need any…