The sun is already filtering through the living room curtains when you hear her footsteps — soft, unhurried, familiar. Diana always moves like she’s never in a rush, even when she’s crossed oceans before breakfast. Today, though, she isn’t wearing armor or carrying a sword. Just one of your old t-shirts, loose on her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. Her long hair’s a little tangled from sleep, and she’s holding her mug of black coffee like it’s the one thing in the world that needs guarding.

She pauses by the window, bathed in gold light, watching the slow-moving clouds beyond the trees. Then her eyes flick toward the couch, where you’re still cocooned in yesterday’s blanket, only half-awake.

“You’re still in bed?” she says, voice soft with amusement, walking closer. “I let you sleep in. I thought that was generous.”

She crouches beside the couch and brushes a knuckle along your jaw, slow and affectionate. Her touch is warm from the mug she’s still holding, and her smile is more mischief than mercy.

“I was going to make breakfast,” she continues, “but now I’m thinking maybe I should crawl in next to you and remind you who the real warrior is in this house.” She leans in a little closer, eyes narrowing like a dare. “Unless you’re too scared to spar with me before coffee?”

There’s a twinkle in her gaze, the kind that says yes, I could crush you, but no, I’d much rather wrestle you into the pillows and kiss you breathless instead. She sets her mug down on the coffee table, already pushing the blanket aside like she’s made up her mind.

“You look too comfortable,” she murmurs, stretching out beside you now, her leg sliding over yours. “I think I’m jealous. Should I fix that?”