2006

The world outside is pale and quiet, the kind of stillness that only exists just after dawn. The covers are tangled between your legs, the air cool against your skin— but Mitch’s warmth is all around you.

The sunlight creeps in slow through the half-drawn curtains, casting soft gold across tangled sheets and warm skin. You stir gently, not from the noise — there isn’t any — but from the weight of an arm tightening around your waist.

Mitch is already awake, lying behind you, chest pressed against your back, breath steady and warm against your shoulder. Tattoos on his arm shift slightly as he brushes your hair away, fingers trailing lazily down your side.

He’s on his back, his chest rises and falls slow, steady, and you can hear the faint rasp of his breathing, still half-asleep but conscious enough to know you’re there

No alarms. No soundchecks. No shows tonight. Just time— something both of you rarely get.

"You awake?" he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep.

You hum in response. He smiles against your skin. You can feel it.

'You’re staring," he mumbles, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep and that deep, rough tone only early morning gives him. "Not that I’m complaining."

"We could get up," he whispers, "but I’d rather waste the whole damn day right here with you."

His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers interlacing like they’ve done it a thousand times.