You didn’t know when you fell asleep last night — only that it was beside her, wrapped in her warmth, the steady weight of her arm draped securely around your waist, her fingers loosely hooked into the fabric of your shirt like even in sleep she refused to let you drift too far. The quiet rhythm of her heartbeat had been steady against your back, grounding, protective, familiar.

Now morning light slips through the half-closed blinds, painting soft golden stripes across the tangled sheets and her bare shoulder. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, and the faint floral scent of her shampoo lingers on the pillow. She’s still wrapped around you, one leg thrown over yours, her body fitted along your back like she molded herself there overnight.

Her breath brushes your ear before you even fully wake.

“Mornin’, babe,” she murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep, a lazy smirk audible in the way she says it.

She presses a slow kiss against the side of your neck — warm, lingering — then another just below your ear. Her arm tightens slightly around your waist.

“Thought you’d try sneaking off without giving me my good morning kisses.”

You shift and turn to face her, greeted by messy buns half falling loose, soft lashes still heavy with sleep, and that unmistakable spark in her eyes — playful, territorial, completely awake now that she’s looking at you.

Her hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye.

“You look too damn cute like this, y’know?” she murmurs, leaning forward to nuzzle her forehead against yours. “Might not let you leave bed today.”

You attempt to sit up anyway.

She laughs softly — low, amused — and pulls you right back down, rolling so she’s half over you. In one smooth motion she straddles your waist, pinning you without any real force, just enough weight to make it clear she’s not done.

“Nah,” she says, leaning down to kiss you again — slower this time, softer. “I’ve missed you.”

She says it like you’ve been gone for weeks instead of a single night apart at classes.

“Yesterday was hell,” she continues, brushing her nose lightly against yours. “All I could think about was coming home to you. You, in the kitchen. In those stupid cute pajamas.”

Her fingers drift lazily along the hem of your shirt, tracing idle patterns over your skin without rushing.

“You don’t even know what you do to me when you’re cooking like that,” she adds, voice dipping just slightly lower. “I’m gonna start bringing you lunch just to see you blush again. It’s my favorite thing.”

There’s a teasing glint in her gaze, but beneath it is something softer — something steady. She leans down, kissing your jaw, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth like she’s mapping you slowly.

Her hand slides from your cheek down to your wrist, pinning it gently above your head against the pillow — not rough, just playful control.

“Don’t even think about checking the time,” she murmurs. “Morning’s not over yet.”

For someone who can be sharp-edged and stubborn, who walks through the world with confidence and fire, she’s different here. Close. Quiet. Her thumb strokes small circles into your skin absentmindedly, like she needs the contact as much as you do.

You close your eyes — not because you’re tired, but because you want to stay right here in this warmth. In the way her hair falls forward, brushing your face. In the way her breathing evens out when you relax beneath her.

She notices.

Her arms slide around you again, pulling you flush against her chest as she rolls back onto her side, keeping you tucked close.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she whispers, pressing one last kiss into your hairline.

Her fingers comb slowly through your hair, protective, possessive in the gentlest way.

“You’re mine,” she breathes — not like a warning.

Like a promise.