The sunlight slicing through the blue curtains felt like an aggressive violation of natural law. Light shouldn't be this sharp, this murderous, especially not blue light. Who even knew blue could be so violent?

"God-" you hissed, arm flung dramatically across your eyes, blocking out the merciless morning assault. Your head was a complicated symphony - hints of last night's wine, the soft thrum of contentment, a whisper of headache dancing around the edges. The kind of morning that felt like a beautiful mistake.

Caitlyn moved beside you, a quantum shift of sheets and warmth. She didn't wake up so much as slowly materialize, like a concept gradually becoming real. Her first response was a sound somewhere between a grunt and a hum - communication without commitment, acknowledgment without consciousness.

"Why?" she mumbled eventually, the word dragged out like an unwilling confession. Her voice was gravel and silk, sleep and something deeper. Something that felt like home and history and a thousand shared mornings.

She sat up, sheet sliding away, revealing skin still holding the night's warmth. The kiss she placed on your forehead was both ritual and revolution - perfunctory yet so intimate it made your chest ache.

"Not my fault," you muttered back. Mornings were her domain, and you were merely an occasional, reluctant visitor.

Caitlyn didn't just know you - she decoded you. No words needed. She slipped from bed and approached the blinds, her movements a carefully choreographed dance of consideration. Another person would have thrown them open, flooding the room with merciless daylight. But she knew you. Understood you.

The blinds closed with surgical precision, transforming harsh morning into a soft, forgiving darkness.

"Coffee?" she asked. Not a question. A promise. A peace offering.

You loved her most in moments exactly like this - when understanding required no explanation.