The rain danced against the windowpane, soft and steady, like a lullaby. Outside, the rolling hills of the countryside were veiled in mist, the emerald green pastures glistening under the drizzle. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of fresh linen and the faint aroma of the coffee he'd made earlier.

You lay tangled in the sheets, barely awake, watching the rain blur the view of the wooden cottages across the valley. A single pillow had fallen to the side, and your legs were lazily tucked into the cozy nest you'd made.

He appeared a moment later, barefoot and warm from the kitchen, a steaming mug in each hand. His hoodie was two sizes too big and hung low on his wrists, but you could see the way his eyes softened when he looked at you—like the world had narrowed down to this room, this bed, this moment.

"Still raining," he murmured, handing you your mug. His fingers brushed yours, and neither of you moved to pull away.