Morning hit the motel windows, casting a warm glow over the room.
Damon turned, hearing the curtains open with a soft rustle. He opened his eyes, squinting slightly at the bright light.
"Morning, mom," he said, sitting up in bed. He raised his hand to rub his eyes, then paused mid-air, remembering that he wasn't exactly fully recovered.
It had been a few days since the fight, and Damon wasn't feeling well.
He had been looking forward to opening his new punching bag, but he had held off, to recover.
Aoife answered, "Morning, Damon," her voice warm and gentle. She turned around, looking at Damon, and forced a smile after glancing at his bruised body.
Her eyes lingered on the purple marks on his face and the bandages on his hands.
Damon sat up, stretching his hand, trying to play it cool. "You're up early," he joked, attempting to hide the pain he felt.
