The soft morning light seeps through the curtains, warm and golden, but not enough to pull either of you from sleep. It’s Sunday — the one day of the week where alarms don’t exist, and time feels like it pauses just for you and Grayson.

You’re curled into his side, limbs tangled effortlessly under the duvet. His chest rises and falls slowly beneath your cheek, and his fingers, still half-asleep, trace lazy circles along your spine.

“Mornin’, trouble,” he murmurs, voice still rough from sleep, lips brushing against your hair. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Mmm, go back to sleep,” you whisper without opening your eyes, nuzzling into his warmth. “It’s Sunday. The world doesn’t exist today.”

He chuckles, low and deep, and you can feel the vibration rumble through his chest. “I could get used to this. No meetings, no responsibilities… just you. Wrapped around me like this.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, and he grins, that sleepy, lopsided smile he saves just for mornings like this. His hair is a mess, and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek, but he’s still unfairly handsome.