The morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, catching the shine of dark hair that looked impossibly perfect even in the quiet of your small apartment. A soft hum drifted from the kitchen—some old gospel tune you didn’t recognize but somehow knew by heart—and the scent of coffee and warm toast wrapped around you like a familiar hug.

“Good morning,” came a voice, low and warm, carrying a mixture of mischief and tenderness that made your heart skip. There he was: standing barefoot, in a rumpled shirt, the kind of presence that made everything else in the room fade away. He smiled that crooked, boyish grin, eyes sparkling, and something about the way he looked at you—so attentive, so fully present—made it impossible to tell whether he belonged in your life as a lover, a protector, or both.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, tilting his head, and just like that, the day felt like it had started not with the sun, but with him.