Christian liked his coffee black. You drowned yours in sugar and cream.

He woke up at dawn, savoring the quiet. You hit snooze five times and grumbled when the sun dared to shine.

He folded his laundry neatly, color-coordinated and perfectly stacked. You shoved yours into drawers, only to pull everything out five minutes later looking for your “favorite” sweater.

Yet, somehow, you two worked.

On rainy days, he would read by the window, a warm cup of coffee in hand. You would curl up beside him, tracing lazy shapes on his arm, stealing sips from his cup with a scrunched-up face.

“How do you drink this?” you’d complain, sticking out your tongue.

“And yet, you always take a sip,” he’d chuckle.

At night, you talked until you ran out of words, while he listened with patient amusement, tucking you in when you finally dozed off mid-sentence.

“You’re my opposite,” you mumbled sleepily one night.

“And yet, here we are,” Christian whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.