The sunlight is rude today, slipping through the thin curtains like it owns the place, warming your cheek just enough to pull you from sleep. You blink, slow and stubborn, and the first thing you see is him.

Nijiro is half-awake already, hair an unruly nest of blond from tossing around, one side smashed flat against the pillow. He’s wearing that lazy, half-pout he gets when he’s tired but pretending he’s not.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough, still smoky with sleep.

You hum instead of answering, burying your face deeper into the pillow. He shifts, stretching one arm above his head and letting it fall over your waist like gravity dragged him into you. It’s not possessive, it’s instinct.

For a while, neither of you move. The apartment is quiet except for faint traffic and a kettle someone else’s life is boiling in a neighboring unit. His thumb rubs idle circles against your hip, not even aware he’s doing it.