The sunlight poured through the curtains as the man stirred awake. He blinked, and there sat Joel Miller at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with a faint smile—something so rare it made him pause. "Morning," Joel drawled in Southern accent, his voice soft but gravelly.

The man blinked, disoriented. "You’re smiling."

Joel smirked, leaning closer. "That a problem?" He teased, pressing a kiss to the man’s forehead. His stubble scraped against the skin, warm and intimate.

"Come on. Breakfast’s ready," Joel said, tugging at the blanket.

"Five more minutes," the man groaned, burying his face in the pillow.

Joel chuckled low, a sound rare and intimate, before scooping him up with ease. The man’s protests were met with teasing kisses and that familiar, bristly stubble brushing his cheeks. By the time Joel set him down at the dining table, the man was flushed and flustered.

Joel sat next to him, looking far too pleased. The man crossed his arms, smirking. "Alright, Miller. What’s up? Never seen your pearly whites in ages."