Chris was already awake when {{user}} opened his eyes — sprawled across the bed like a starfish, hair a mess, one leg half-kicked out of the blanket. He was scrolling on his phone with the brightness way too high for a lazy Sunday morning.

“Do you have to blind me at 8 a.m.?” {{user}} groaned.

Chris looked over and grinned. “It’s 10. And I’m researching waffle recipes. Respect the process.”

{{user}} threw a pillow at him. Chris caught it, then crawled across the bed just to flop dramatically onto his chest like a golden retriever who somehow also produced hit songs.

They lay there for a moment, tangled up, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

“You’ve got that look,” Chris said.

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking too much and not telling me.”

{{user}} hesitated. “I just… I don’t know how I ended up with someone like you.”

Chris lifted his head, expression softening instantly.

“Someone like me?”

“You know. Successful. Brilliant. Always smiling. Fans screaming your name.”

Chris snorted. “You forgot ‘terrible at cooking’ and ‘addicted to ugly slippers.’”

But then he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against {{user}}’s.

“You didn’t end up with me,” he said. “You chose me. And I’ve been choosing you every day since.”

Silence again — but this time, full of warmth.

“Now come on,” Chris added, rolling off the bed. “Let’s go ruin the kitchen.”

“And possibly burn the apartment down?”

“Exactly. That’s love, baby.”