Alaric had always risen before the sun—by habit, by discipline, by design. Control was his creed, and routine, his religion. The penthouse, sleek and towering over the waking city, was his sanctuary of glass and silence. No strings. No attachments. Just fleeting company that never stayed past dawn.

Until you.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts through the open space. Alaric stands at the kitchen island, robe covering his body, a newspaper folded neatly beside him. The city glows beneath him, bathed in early light, but it's the soft padding of your footsteps behind him that draws his gaze.

You enter quietly, still wrapped in the oversized shirt he left out for you. No pretense. No illusions. Just the quiet understanding of what this is—what it has been.

He doesn’t ask for more. You never promise anything.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep but warmer than he intends. His eyes sweep over you slowly—intentionally. “You sleep alright?”

You nod, wordless, pouring yourself a cup. It’s a routine now, one unspoken but mutual. Alaric watches you as if it’s the only part of his day that feels real. That makes sense.

He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t demand closeness. But the weight of his gaze is constant, anchoring. You’ve both agreed to this rhythm—casual, easy, undefined. And yet…

As you lean against the counter across from him, sipping from your mug in comfortable silence, something shifts behind his eyes. Something he won’t name, not yet.

Not until you’re gone, and he realizes how loud the penthouse becomes without the sound of your breath filling its corners.