The room was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of birds outside Scarabia’s arched windows. Golden light spilled through the ornate curtains, painting the stone walls with a soft warmth that signaled the start of a new day.

The bed was wide—probably bigger than it needed to be—but only one side had been neatly arranged. The other side was in disarray: the sheet half-kicked off, a pillow dented from the weight of a head, and a single long braid of raven-black hair trailing across the white fabric like an ink stroke.

He stirred first.

Not him—Jamil.

His brows furrowed as the light touched his face, long lashes fluttering faintly against his cheeks. He looked almost peaceful like this, the tight mask he usually wore loosened by sleep. No carefully measured expression. No calculating glances. Just a boy who was, for once, allowed to rest.

Then his eyes opened. Slowly.

His gaze flicked toward the ceiling, then over to his side—where the other man was still half-asleep, barely registering that the warmth beside him had shifted.

A breath. Almost a sigh.

“...You’re awake early.” His voice was low, still rough from sleep, but not unkind.

The other didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t want to—but because the sight of Jamil like this, eyes lidded and hair tousled, stole the words from his throat.

Jamil blinked once, then rolled onto his back, his arm resting over his stomach. “Or did I oversleep?” he murmured, voice more to himself than to the other man. There was a brief flash of alarm in his expression—like the muscle memory of years spent waking up early to serve Kalim had kicked in—before he remembered where he was. With him.

He didn’t reply for a moment. Then: “If I sleep any longer, I’ll have to sprint to get breakfast ready before Kalim sets the curtains on fire trying to make toast.” A pause. “Again.”

The other laughed softly, and Jamil’s lips twitched. Just barely.

It was quiet again for a moment. He felt the other man reach out, fingers brushing lightly against the braid that had unraveled sometime during the night, now curled against his collarbone. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

Instead, he let him touch him. Something he almost never allowed during the day.

“I don’t usually… do this,” he said suddenly. The words sounded like they surprised even him. “Wake up next to someone.”

“Too many habits. Too many things to take care of. People expect me to always be three steps ahead. Can’t afford to sleep in.” He glanced at him. “Let alone stay in bed.”

Jamil’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than usual. His eyes were unreadable, but not cold.

Then, with a small, weary exhale, he shifted closer—not dramatically, just enough that his forehead brushed his, his braid slipping between the two of them like a loose thread holding them together.