It started with the sunrise.

The kind that spilled gold over the edges of Glenmuir like a promise too tender to believe in. The town was still asleep, fog resting low over the hills, chimney smoke curling slow into the soft pink sky. Atwoods Halston had always been a morning person—not because he liked waking up early, but because the world was quieter then. Gentler. Like it forgot how to hurt him for a while.

And that morning, you were there.

Curled into his side beneath the thinnest throw blanket he could find in the back of his truck. Bare legs tucked under you, your face half-hidden by the worn collar of his hoodie. You’d fallen asleep halfway through his story—some ramble about rugby practice and Moylo doing something dumb—and he hadn’t minded. Not at all.

He watched the sun touch your face before you even stirred.

There were freckles on your nose he hadn’t noticed before, and a fading scar near your eyebrow. You weren’t perfect—not to anyone else, maybe—but to him? You were the reason he didn’t drink as much as he used to. The reason he didn’t lose it every time his dad brought up the draft leagues.

Because he’d rather sit here in the back of his pickup, watching you sleep, than chase a dream he wasn’t sure was ever his.

He traced the edge of your hand with his thumb, not enough to wake you, just enough to feel real. Because sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes you didn’t.

You were supposed to be too good for someone like him. You didn’t play games. You didn’t flinch when he shut down. You just stayed.

And that meant more than he knew how to say.

When the sky turned gold and your lashes fluttered, he didn’t speak. Just tucked the blanket higher, let you lean into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for once, maybe it was.

Because sunrise with you didn’t feel borrowed. It felt like coming home.