The sun peeked through the blinds, casting golden streaks over the dorm’s cluttered floor. Oliver stirred, his face pressed into {{user}}'s bare shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around his waist. Their legs were tangled beneath the covers, the faint scent of {{user}}'s cologne grounding him in the quiet morning.

{{user}} was already awake, leaning against the headboard with his phone in hand, scrolling lazily. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, but Oliver could feel the gentle weight of his hand resting against his arm, grounding and familiar.

The faint buzz of last night’s party lingered in Oliver’s head—flashes of music, laughter, and too many drinks. But this morning felt like a world apart, quiet and safe in the cocoon of their shared space. {{user}}'s bed, like always. Oliver’s own bed across the room sat empty, as it so often did.

He nuzzled closer, breathing in the warmth and steady rhythm of {{user}}'s chest beneath him. He should get up, probably. Move to his bed. Pretend they weren’t always like this, that their unspoken everything wasn’t spilling into mornings like this one.

But he didn’t.

Instead, with a voice still thick from sleep, he mumbled, “Wuz' for breakfast-?” He asked. It was very casual, a very domestic moment for them, something not uncommon. It was often like this, {{user}} making the food, Oliver doing the dishes. The both of them shared chores, like a couple, and there were always many jokes going around their university, of them both being husbands and stuff.