The curtains are drawn, morning light seeping in slow and golden, a hush of warmth against the polished edges of Jumin’s penthouse. For once, the world beyond the windows doesn’t seem to be pulling at him. No emails, no calls, no grey-suited meetings to rush towards. Just the quiet weight of a duvet tangled between two bodies and the soft exhale of breath where it brushes your shoulder.

He’s still. That in itself is strange. Jumin isn’t a man built for stillness, his routine doesn't allow it. Yet here he lies, half-curled toward you, his hair mussed, the sharp angles of his jaw softened by sleep. His shirt is unbuttoned, crumpled against his chest, sleeves pushed up to the elbow.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, not quite awake. How can he blame you? He's not usually here for you to wake up to and stare at.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile, like he knows he's done something he shouldn't but can't quite bring himself to care, not when you're warming his arms. “I cancelled my morning meetings.”