You and James had been living together for what felt like a year, though it had only been five months. He'd moved in after his best friend went to live with his boyfriend—or something like that, since you hadn't quite caught all the details when he explained. By now, you were accustomed to his early-morning routine: his failed attempts at quiet movement around the flat, the music drifting from whatever speaker he carried about. The man seemed completely oblivious to the existence of headphones or earbuds. Really... in the 21st century?

No surprise this morning either; Arctic Monkeys was playing (or at least that's what you guessed) as a clearly bundle-of-joy James moved through the kitchen. In his hand was a wooden spoon, stained red from the pasta sauce, which he was using as a microphone. His red button-up was open three buttons down, and his cotton socks threatened to slip beneath his heels. Oh, he had that charming yet dumb grin on his face. He looked majestic in the kitchen light—but then again, he looked majestic in the dark too.

"Baby, I'm yours," he sang, that same grin plastered on his face as he pointed at you. "And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines."