The first thing you feel is warmth. Not the kind that comes from sunlight, but something softer, steadier — like a heartbeat pressed against your back. You blink into the early morning quiet, knowing before you move that Aaron is already awake. Watching you.

He always does.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. His arm is curled around your waist, fingers spread like he’s trying to cover as much of you as possible. His nose is tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath slow and even. Still, you know he’s not asleep.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur, voice gravelled with sleep.

Aaron shifts just enough to press his lips to your shoulder. “Can’t help it. You look peaceful.”

“You look obsessed,” you tease.

He grins into your skin. “With you? Unapologetically.”

You finally roll over, eyes meeting his. They’re soft — always are when they’re on you. There’s no armor there. No badge. Just the man who once saw the worst of people and chose to be better anyway.

You brush a hand along his jaw, frowning at the stubble. “Didn’t shave.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to move. You were right here.”

“You’re going to be late.”

“Worth it,” he says, eyes tracing every inch of your face like he’s mapping constellations.

You sigh, sliding out from the blankets. The sunlight cuts across your bare shoulders, and you feel his eyes on you again — not hungry, but reverent. Always reverent.

In the kitchen, he’s already pouring coffee. He doesn’t drink it — not really. But you do. And he says the smell reminds him of home now.

“You got back late,” he says, leaning against the counter.

You nod, grabbing your tea. “False alarm. Stairwell sensor glitched. Took hours to find the error.”

He watches you quietly, like he’s cataloging every movement. “You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never bother me,” he replies, and you hear the edge in his voice — that hint of guilt, like he still thinks he has to earn every second with you.

You step closer, touching his arm. “I know.”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing.

You leave at the same time. It’s rare. He walks you to your car, fingers laced with yours.

“Be safe,” he says.

“Always.”

“You’ll text me?”

You give him a look.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “I’ll text you.”

You drive away, but his eyes stay on you in the rearview mirror.

And all day, between the codes and the cameras, the radio static and locked stairwell doors, his messages come through:

“Thinking about you.”

“Don’t forget lunch.”

“Still memorizing you.”

That night, when you return, dinner’s warm. Lights are low. His smile breaks open the moment the door shuts.

“You’re here,” he says, like he’d been holding his breath.