morning comes in pieces—golden light through the curtain seam, warmth where his body used to be, the scent of coffee threading through the hallway.

you peel yourself off the sheets, bare feet hitting the floor. the apartment’s quiet except for the faint clink of ceramic and the low hum of the coffee machine.

you pad into the kitchen, and he’s already there, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hand steady on the french press. he looks up, eyes soft, mouth tilting into a boyish smile that still hasn’t gotten old.

“well, hey there, sleepyhead,” he greets, voice a bit raspy. “was trying not to wake you.”

you stand there, your surroundings still not entirely real, blinking at him in the warm spill of morning light.

“you didn’t,” you mumble.

he gestures toward the second mug already waiting on the counter. “figured you’d smell the coffee and wander in.”

you move toward him, slow, limbs not fully yours yet. his hand finds your waist instinctively and pulls you into a hug. you bury your face in his chest. he smells like cinnamon and sleep and soap. he laughs, quiet, kissing the top of your head.

“mm,” he says, “she lives.”