Morning light spills through the half-open blinds of the apartment like warm honey, striping the rumpled sheets and the furniture in lazy gold bars.

Adrian lies sprawled on his stomach across most of the bed, one arm flung possessively over your hips even though you’re already half out of it, sitting on the edge trying to wrangle your hair into something work-appropriate. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers and a sleepy grin, green eyes cracked open just enough to watch you with that particular brand of adoration usually reserved for puppies and perfectly executed headshots.

You’re in your bra and a pair of high-waisted slacks, reaching for the blouse draped over the chair, and he makes a soft, wounded noise (like a golden retriever denied a belly rub) when you slip out from under his arm.

“Babe, no, come on,” he whines, voice still gravelly with sleep, flopping dramatically onto his back. “It’s barely even morning. The sun’s literally still yawning. You don’t have to go in today. Stay. We can watch those otter videos I saved—the ones where they hold hands so they don’t drift apart while sleeping. It’s basically science telling us to cuddle.”

You laugh, soft and bright, the sound bouncing around the sunlit room, and he feels it in his chest like a direct hit from Cupid’s arrow. You lean over to kiss his forehead before straightening to button your blouse.

“Adrian, I have that nine-thirty meeting with the regional manager. If I don’t show, Karen from accounting will absolutely throw me under the bus about the quarterly reports.”

He props himself up on his elbows, hair sticking up in every direction, and gives you the full-force puppy eyes. “But I’m, like, objectively richer than your job. I have Vigilante money. And that one time I found a suitcase full of cash in a dumpster. We could buy so many otters. Or, like, an otter sanctuary. Think about it—no spreadsheets, just you, me, and a bunch of fuzzy little dudes floating around holding hands.”

You pause mid-button, turning to look at him with that fond, slightly exasperated smile that always makes him feel like he’s won something better than any fight.

You step closer, sliding one knee onto the mattress so you can lean down and cup his face in both hands. Your thumbs stroke over the stubble along his jaw, and he leans into it shamelessly, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Sweetheart,” you say, voice warm and teasing, “I love you, but I also love not getting fired. And I love buying my own coffee instead of mooching off your ‘found cash.’ Besides, if I stay, you’ll just distract me with animal facts until noon, and then we’ll both be late for everything.”

He grins, catching your wrists to press kisses to your palms. “That’s not a bug, that’s a feature. Did you know sea otters have a favorite rock they keep in a little pouch under their arm? Like a comfort stone. You could be my comfort stone. I’d carry you everywhere.”