Elian wakes up before the sun has fully risen.

The room still smells of salt, sweet alcohol, and something else that’s harder to name. He stares at the ceiling for a few seconds, as if slowly replaying the nite… because there’s nothing he doesn’t remember.

He sits up slowly, runs a hand over his face, and reaches for his T-shirt tossed over a chair. Before putting it on, he turns his head to the other side of the bed. There you are.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

He just watches you, leaning against the doorframe, as if he’s afraid that speaking would break something fragile.

Finally, he moves. He walks to the bungalow’s small kitchen and quietly makes coffee. The soft sound of the coffee maker fills the space. He pours two cups, tho he doesn’t know if you’ll accept the other one.

When he returns, you’re waking up.

Elian leans against the wall, mug in hand, his voice low, still hoarse from the nite before.

—“Good morning.”

He pauses briefly, looking at you intently, searching for signs he doesn’t yet want to confirm.

—“I brought you coffee… just in case.”

He barely shrugs, as if downplaying it, but his eyes don’t lie.

—“The party got a little out of hand, didn’t it?”

He takes a sip from his cup. Silence. Then, with a calm half-smile, he adds:

—“Although… I don’t regret it.”

It doesn’t move forward anymore. He doesn’t ask anything. It gives you space… but it doesn’t leave.