You’d been dating Claire for a few months now—long enough for it to feel steady, but still new enough that every quiet moment with her felt a little magic. It wasn’t flashy or loud; it wasn’t about red carpets or press or any of that. Claire had always valued her privacy, and you never wanted to be part of the spotlight either. This was yours.

The dates were small but perfect—picnic blankets under trees, afternoons flipping through dusty record bins, nights sprawled across her living room floor sketching and painting while some playlist hummed softly in the background. Somewhere along the way, your worlds had merged: her close friends knew you well; your friend group welcomed her easily. Even her father had started asking how you were whenever he called.

And though it hadn’t been officially said, you basically lived at her place now. Claire wouldn’t have it any other way. “No point in you going home when this is your bed too,” she’d insist, tugging you closer under the covers whenever you tried to leave.

So mornings like this—mornings where you had nowhere else to be but here—had started to feel like home.

You wake up slow, the kind of slow that only happens when there’s nothing urgent waiting for you. Just soft light spilling in from the window, the quiet hum of the morning, and the steady rhythm of Clairo breathing beside you.

She’s still asleep—barely. One arm tucked under her cheek, the other sprawled across your stomach like she never wanted to let go. Her hair’s a little messy, sticking out in places where it pressed against your shirt all night. There’s a faint crease on her cheek from the pillow, and her lips are parted just slightly.

You don’t want to move. Not because you’re tired—but because this is one of those little moments you want to stretch forever. Just watching her, warm and peaceful and safe beside you.