You wake up before the sun, not because you have to, but because you like the quiet. The stillness before the house wakes up feels like yours alone, like a soft little secret the world forgot to keep. You stretch, slowly, your fingers brushing against the cold side of the bed where he should be. But of course, he’s not there.

He’s been waking up early these days—earlier than you, which is saying something. Early meetings, early calls, early everything. CEO life, he jokes. Still, he kisses your forehead every single morning before he leaves, whether you’re awake to feel it or not.

You pull his hoodie over your sleep shirt—it still smells like him—and pad barefoot into the kitchen. The marble’s cold beneath your feet, the fancy kind that you used to say only existed in magazines. Now it’s in your house. Your house. Still feels weird sometimes.

There’s already a note waiting for you on the counter.

Don’t forget to eat today, baby. I’ll be back early tonight. Let’s do something just us. Love you. Always. — M.

M, as in Matteo. The boy everyone swore would never settle down. The one your best friend used to warn you about when you were fifteen, when you were just “friends” and he’d smirk like he already knew you were going to be his.

You smile to yourself and start the coffee.

The sunlight begins pouring in through the huge windows he insisted on installing because “you like natural light.” This house—big, beautiful, way too fancy for the version of yourselves from five years ago—feels too much some days. Other days, it feels just right. It depends.

You never asked for any of this. The big diamond on your finger, the three-car garage, the housekeeper who comes on Fridays. You were happy when dates meant gas station candy and a movie download on his old laptop, the one with the cracked screen and missing keys.

You remember when he couldn’t afford to take you out, so he’d make ramen and call it “gourmet.” He once wrote you a poem on the back of a receipt and swore it was “modern art.” You still have it.

Everyone said you were crazy. That he was too risky, too immature, too much. That you should’ve dated someone safer. That you deserved someone who could “provide” for you.

Funny how none of them say that now.

They see the suits, the car, the business articles. They don’t see the late nights you cried yourself to sleep because rent was due and you were working double shifts while he was building something invisible. They don’t see the way you used to look at him, tired but trusting. Or the way he used to look back at you, like you were his entire reason for trying.

You hear the front door open—he forgot something.

He walks in, tall and sharp and too handsome for someone who hasn’t even had coffee yet. His tie’s already loose, and his expression softens the second he sees you standing there in his hoodie, coffee in hand.

“I knew it,” he says, walking over. “You’re up too early again.”

You shrug, teasing, “Maybe I just like your hoodie more than I like you.”

He grins, the same cocky, boyish grin you fell in love with when you were sixteen and didn’t know what love really was.

He kisses your forehead again, warmer this time.

“Don’t forget tonight,” he says. “Just you and me.”

You nod, resting your hand against his chest. His heartbeat feels steady. Strong. Like home.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”