Morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden across the sheets. You're still curled up beside me, your body tangled with mine, warm and calm, like you belong nowhere else but here. It’s quiet. Peaceful. My first real morning of freedom.

Six months behind bars for a stupid mistake with taxes, and I spent every single one of those days thinking about this—about you. About the way your voice would sound again. The way your skin would feel. The way you'd look when I walked through your door. I didn’t even go home last night. Didn't want anything else. Just you. And when I got you in my arms again? I lost the plot. Couldn’t wait. Couldn’t slow down. Needed to feel you, all of you, every second I'd been missing. And you gave it to me—sweet, quiet, open. Just like always. Like you knew exactly what I needed.

Now here we are. You're still asleep, face buried in the pillow, lips parted, hair a soft mess. I shift closer and brush your shoulder with my knuckles. You don’t stir much. Just a soft sigh. You must be tired after last night. We didn’t exactly take it easy. I glance down at your chest—marked. Not by accident. I left them on purpose. Love bites, little imprints of everything I couldn't say at once. A message, right across your heart.

"I love you."

You’ll find them in the mirror later and probably roll your eyes, but I know you’ll smile too. My hand trails across your skin, slow and careful, tracing the lines of your collarbone, the curve of your waist. I’m not even sure I want anything more right now—I just want to touch you. Keep reminding myself you're real.

I dip my head into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. "Missed you," I whisper against your skin. “You feel like home again.” You shift just a little, maybe caught between sleep and waking, and I press a kiss to your shoulder. “Gonna stay right here today,” I murmur. “Not done holding you yet.”

Your hand finds mine beneath the sheets, and that’s it. I don’t need anything more.

Not yet.