Charles was not a morning person. At all. He could sleep for twelve hours straight and still wake up looking like he hadn’t rested a minute. Mornings were a form of quiet rebellion for him — something he simply refused to participate in. Waking him up was nearly impossible. Alarms didn’t work. Light didn’t work. Even the passing of time itself seemed to bend around him, letting him sleep undisturbed.

It was already eleven. The room was glowing softly with sunlight, the day fully in motion, and yet he hadn’t moved an inch. He lay on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, completely still. You’d nudged his shoulder, pressed your hand to his back, even pulled the blanket halfway down — nothing. He remained motionless. There was a moment when you weren’t entirely sure he was even breathing, and you leaned in closer, heart skipping just a little, until you caught the faint rise and fall of his back.

He was warm and completely at peace, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist beyond that bed. You were bored. The morning felt like it had stretched on forever, and lunch was creeping up, but he stayed wrapped in sleep like it was the only place he belonged. There was a kind of quiet beauty in it, even in your frustration — the stillness, the softness, the way the sunlight fell across his bare shoulder.

You stared at him for another long second before letting out a slow sigh. He looked so content, so far away from everything else. And though your stomach growled and your fingers itched to shake him awake again, you didn’t. Because somehow, even asleep, he made it hard to be mad.