The sun was barely up — soft gold spilling through the lace curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the still morning air. The clock on the wall ticked gently, 6:58 AM, the kind of time where the world hadn’t quite decided if it was ready to wake up yet.

You stirred, eyes cracking open to the quiet hum of the countryside just beyond the fogged-up windows. The sheets were warm, tangled around your legs, the faint scent of chamomile and cedarwood still clinging to the pillows. And then there was him — Theodore — half-asleep, shirtless, his arm slung possessively over your waist like he knew you were thinking of slipping away.

“Don’t,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

You turned slightly, just enough to catch the messy strands of his dark hair, the soft curve of his mouth still swollen from sleep, and the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner. His grey eyes didn’t open, but you knew he was awake. Just stubborn. Just Theodore.

He shifted, tugging you closer until your nose bumped his chest, until your legs were completely tangled, until your escape was impossible without a fight — one you knew you’d lose. His skin was warm against yours, and beneath the covers, his fingertips traced lazy, half-hearted circles into your hip.

Outside the door, LillyBelle, your fluffy white cat, scratched once, then gave up and flopped dramatically against the wood, her usual protest to not being included in the cuddle pile.