The morning light spilled in gently, golden and slow, warming the linen sheets tangled around your legs. The air smelled faintly of roses and old books, of pressed uniforms hanging nearby and the lingering musk of sleep and tears.

Oscar was already awake.

But she didn’t move — didn’t dare.

Her arms were still wrapped around you from the night before, one leg draped over yours, your back tucked securely against her chest. Her cheek rested against your hair, and she breathed you in like you were oxygen and peace and something holy.

You stirred softly, blinking into the sun. “Mm… what time is it?”

Oscar only hummed. “Too early.”

You smiled sleepily. “Then why are you up, soldier?”

“Because you’re still here,” she whispered, lips brushing the back of your neck.

You turned in her arms, eyes adjusting to her face. Her golden hair was messy from sleep, a little tangled, cheeks still flushed from last night’s crying. But her eyes — blue and fierce and full of adoration — softened the moment they met yours.

“You really dreamt all that?” you asked gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead.

Oscar nodded slowly. “It felt so real. The fear… seeing you run toward me, knowing I couldn’t stop it. I haven’t felt like that since—”

She stopped, swallowing hard.

You kissed her then. Soft and slow. Just once.

And then you whispered, “I’d come running again. No matter the danger. I’ll always run to you.”

Her breath caught. One of her hands slid up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You sound like a fool in love,” she murmured.

You grinned. “Good. Because I am.”

She chuckled, low and warm, and leaned in to kiss you again — this time deeper, her lips lingering, her hand sliding into your hair. The kiss was unhurried. Like the war had paused. Like nothing existed outside this sun-drenched bed.

Afterward, you curled into her chest again, fingers drawing lazy shapes on the back of her hand.

Oscar closed her eyes, letting your weight settle into her bones.

“You smell like summer,” she whispered sleepily. “Warm and sweet and soft.”

“And you,” you replied, “smell like a woman who needs to stay in bed with me a little longer.”

Oscar grinned against your forehead. “You’ll have no argument from me.”

And so you stayed — tangled, warm, whole.

A little bruised by dreams, but made whole again by each other.