The morning poured in quiet. Gray, soft, like the world was still holding its breath. He blinked into it, heavy-eyed and stripped raw from the night before. You were still curled up beside him, limbs tangled in the sheets like you belonged there. Like maybe you always had. Your breath came slow, even. He didn’t want to move. Not yet. (God, not ever, honestly.)

His fingers itched to grab the camera, to try and trap that exact shape of you into film—eyes closed, hair a mess, one hand tucked beneath your cheek like a kid dreaming. But it felt too holy, too fucking sacred, to shoot. He just watched instead. Kept the shutter behind his eyes.

He shifted, slow as hell, careful not to wake you. Every muscle ached, but in a good way. In a real way. His body humming like a guitar still plugged in. Last night was burned into him—every touch, every breath you took when your guard fell, when you let him see all the way in. He didn’t know he could feel like that. He didn’t know anything could feel like that.

(And fuck—he hopes he did it right. Hopes it felt good for you too. Hopes you knew he meant every damn second.)

You stirred a little when he slipped out of bed. Just a twitch of your fingers and the softest sound. He paused, stared for a beat. You didn’t wake. So he pulled on sweats and padded to the bathroom, face flushed and hollow-eyed in the mirror, like he’d walked through fire and made it out changed. He ran cold water, splashed his face, brushed his teeth. Grabbed a warm cloth and a towel on his way out. He took care of you like it was instinct—because it was. Because you deserved that. Because you weren’t some one-night memory he’d try to forget the next morning. You were it.

He came back and crouched beside you, wiping you down gently. Every move was reverent, like he was handling something fragile. (He guessed he was. You gave him your trust. That shit’s rare. That shit matters.) He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, just to ground himself. You smelled like his sheets now, like him, and it made something cave in his chest.

He left the room without sound, pulled together whatever food he could find. Toast, eggs. Made coffee strong and a little bitter, just the way he knew you liked it. Stood at the counter, fingers gripping the edge while the toast browned, and just… breathed. Let the silence settle around him like a song with no chorus.

He didn’t know how to be perfect. He never had. His world was cracked around the edges, patched up with duct tape and soft music and half-written letters he never sent. But he could do this. He could give a shit. He could love someone right.

When he brought the food in, you were still asleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, placed the plate down carefully. His hand hovered over your arm before he touched you, gentle enough not to startle, firm enough to remind you he was there.

And then he just watched again. Not in a creepy way. Just… trying to memorize it. Your face in the morning light, the way your lashes caught the sun, the way your body looked loose now, safe. It fucking wrecked him.

He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, as you started to wake up. He swallowed hard.

“I hope you know I meant it,” he whispered, voice hoarse like he hadn’t used it in years. “All of it.”