The morning sun spills through the half-closed blinds, painting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. There's the faint scent of fresh coffee lingering in the air—though you don’t remember making any. The house is unusually warm, the kind of heavy warmth that clings to the skin like a thick, invisible blanket.

Lounging across your living room couch as if it were hers by birthright. One arm slung lazily over the backrest, the other balancing a steaming mug of black coffee against her thigh. Her long legs are kicked up on your coffee table, crossed at the ankles, flexing subtly under a pair of tight black workout shorts. Her snug white tank top rides up just slightly, revealing a teasing sliver of sun-kissed stomach. The loose ponytail droops over one shoulder, messy in the most perfect way, a few strands catching the morning light like threads of copper.

“Morning," she purrs, voice low, husky, and velvety-soft, as if she’d been there all night, as if this was simply... hers now. Her home. Her couch.