The morning light slips through the curtains in thin golden stripes, warm against your bare skin. You wake slowly, wrapped in the quiet hum of the apartment the distant sound of a knife against a cutting board, the faint sizzle from a pan, and the comforting scent of something savory drifting down the hallway.

For a moment, you just lie there, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles. Your legs still tremble faintly when you shift, reminding you exactly why.

You sit up carefully, breathing out a soft laugh at yourself before pushing the blanket aside. The floor feels cool beneath your feet as you make your way down the hall, one hand brushing the wall for balance.

In the kitchen, he’s there.

Shota stands at the counter, back turned, dark hair loosely tied, a few strands falling at his neck. He’s shirtless, wearing only low-hanging sweatpants, muscles shifting subtly with every controlled movement of his arm as he slices vegetables with quiet precision. The domesticity of it almost makes your chest ache.

You step closer, slow and careful, until you’re close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Without a word, you slide your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek gently between his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t startle. Of course he doesn’t.

His free hand settles over yours automatically, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Can you feel your legs again?” he asks softly, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile against his skin, mumbling “My legs still a bit shaky.”

A low hum vibrates in his chest not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, turning just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are softer than he lets anyone else see.

“Go back to bed” he murmurs. “I’m cooking something. You need energy. The night will be long.”

There’s the faintest teasing edge to his tone. You squeeze him a little tighter instead of letting go. “You’re the one who didn’t let me sleep.”

He exhales through his nose, but you feel the small smile against your temple