I wake slowly.
Not the kind of waking where the world snaps into focus, but the soft kind, where awareness drifts in like light through curtains. My body stretches before my mind catches up, arms reaching above my head, toes pointing instinctively as if the whole night has been one long pause that needs releasing.
The sheets are warm. Too warm to rush out of.
I blink a few times and reach for my phone on the bedside table, the screen lighting up in the dim morning. The time is earlier than I expected. A few messages sit there waiting, quiet little reminders that the outside world exists somewhere beyond this room. I glance at them, not really reading yet, just confirming that time is still moving.
Then I turn over.
They’re still asleep.
The kind of asleep where the face softens completely, where the tension of the day hasn’t returned yet. Their hair is slightly messy, breathing slow and even. I pause there for a moment, propped on one elbow, just looking. There’s something oddly peaceful about seeing someone when they’re completely unaware of being seen.
Eventually I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb the mattress too much. My feet touch the floor and I stretch again, a long slow stretch that wakes up my shoulders and back.
The bathroom light feels much brighter than the bedroom. I blink at the mirror and immediately notice it, my mascara has smudged slightly beneath one eye, a faint shadow like proof that the night had been lived in rather than slept through neatly.
I tilt my head, studying it for a moment, amused.
Not perfect.
Not even close.
But somehow it feels right.
I rinse my hands and leave the bathroom.
I grab a glass from the kitchen, and fill it with water. The first sip is cold and refreshing, grounding in that simple way mornings sometimes are. The quiet in the apartment feels thick and comfortable, like the day hasn’t fully arrived yet.
When I crawl back into bed, the sheets are still warm where I left them.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then, almost instinctively, they move.
Without opening their eyes, they shift closer and wrap an arm around me, pulling me into the familiar space against their chest. The hold is tighter than expected, protective in that half-asleep way where the body knows what it wants even when the mind hasn’t caught up.
I smile into the pillow.
Their breathing settles again almost immediately, steady and slow. And somehow, with that arm around me and the quiet morning pressing gently against the windows, sleep pulls me back down with them.
The world can wait a little longer.