The morning light filtered in through thin curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You stirred gently, blinking against the soft sunlight, only to feel a familiar weight across your waist.

Kyle’s arm was draped over you, heavy with sleep, his hand splayed lazily on your stomach. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest behind you, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck.

You didn’t move—didn’t want to. There was something sacred about these quiet moments. No gunfire, no orders in your ear, no countdowns. Just him, you, and the soft rhythm of a life you both pretended wasn’t borrowed.

He mumbled something incoherent and shifted closer, nuzzling into your hair like he was trying to melt into you.

“You’re clingy in the morning,” you whispered, smiling.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his voice still thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You did. You really, truly did.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, tangled in each other and the blankets, until your stomach betrayed you with a quiet growl.

Kyle chuckled, lifting his head just enough to kiss your shoulder. “That’s my cue.”

He rolled out of bed, shirtless, boxers hanging low on his hips, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. You watched him for a second—admiring the way he scratched the back of his neck, still half-asleep, muttering about coffee like it was a sacred ritual.

You followed a few minutes later, wrapping one of his hoodies around you. The smell of toast and eggs greeted you, and Gaz glanced over with a grin that made your chest feel too full.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said. “You’ve got bed hair.”

You leaned on the counter and smirked. “And yet you still kissed me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

He slid a plate in front of you, then leaned in, lips brushing your cheek.

“That’s because you are.”

You didn’t need fire or grand gestures. Just this—mornings like these, breakfasts made with one eye still closed, quiet kisses between bites. A slice of something real.

Something like home.