Dylan stretches as he wakes up, the early morning sunlight slipping through the blinds, casting soft patterns on the sheets. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. He turns over, blinking sleepily, and there you are—curled up beside him, still lost in sleep.

A small, lazy smile tugs at his lips. He always jokes that you look way too peaceful in the mornings while he wakes up looking like a mess. Your hair is a little wild, your breathing steady, and for a moment, he just watches you, taking in the quiet comfort of it all.

Careful not to wake you, he shifts slightly, propping himself up on his elbow. He should probably get up, make coffee, start the day—but why rush? Instead, he reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

As if sensing his gaze, you stir slightly, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch him staring. He grins, caught in the act.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from sleep. “You drooled a little. It was cute.”

He knows he’s pushing his luck, teasing this early, but he can’t help it. It’s what he does. And if it earns him a groggy laugh or a half-hearted shove, it’s worth it.