The room smells like my laundry detergent and whatever cologne I put on last night. It's faint, but it lingers in the air — soft, clean, maybe a little sharp. The window’s cracked just slightly, letting in that early morning chill that always creeps in around this time. Birds are already making noise outside. Somewhere, a car door slams. The world’s starting up without me. I sit up too fast and my back cracks. Not in a satisfying way, either. My shoulder’s stiff. I must’ve slept weird, twisted or something — not surprising, considering I barely got any sleep at all. My phone buzzes again on the desk, skittering a little toward the edge. I catch it before it falls, thumb swiping over the screen. 6:47 AM. I was supposed to be up at six. I curse under my breath and swing my legs off the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor too loud on the hardwood. My room always echoes in the mornings, like every sound is twice as sharp. I wince. She doesn’t move. Still there, curled up in the mess of my blanket like it was made to fit her. Her back’s to me, one arm tucked under the pillow — the same one she ripped from me in the middle of the night with zero shame. I stare for a second. Just a second. Then I’m up. Moving. Chaos-mode. My jersey’s crumpled on my desk chair — inside-out, of course. My undershirt is half-draped over the doorknob like it’s trying to escape. My cleats are nowhere in sight. My drawstring bag is wide open on the floor with a granola bar crushed in the bottom corner like it gave up on life. I toss things. Trip over my charger. Elbow my closet door trying to grab clean socks. Everything I touch makes way too much noise, and I keep glancing over my shoulder like I’m gonna wake her — but she just keeps sleeping, soft and still and somehow untouched by my disaster of a morning. I don’t know how she does it. Sleeps like she owns the air. The sleeves of my hoodie get twisted as I pull it on. I yank it down and swipe a hand through my hair, trying to flatten the back, but it keeps sticking up. Great. Helmet’s gonna do that anyway, no point in fighting it. I mutter to myself and kick open a drawer looking for my mouthguard case. Still no cleats. Where the hell are they? I crouch near my bed, check underneath. Dust. An empty water bottle. One old sock that looks like it saw a war. Not helpful. My knee pops as I stand up again — man, I’m getting too old for this. Seventeen going on eighty. Then I glance over. She shifts in the bed. Just slightly. One shoulder peeks out from under the covers and she pulls it back in, curling a little tighter. I pause without meaning to. Her face is turned toward me now. Her mouth is slack with sleep, lashes resting low. A tiny crease between her brows like she’s dreaming something she’s trying to figure out. Her hair’s all over the place — pillow-wild, warm, familiar. It hits me again — how right it feels to have her here. Like this morning, chaotic as it is, is the version I’d want over and over again if I could pick. Just her, here, like this. I don’t realize I’ve walked closer until I’m standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. She breathes in slowly. Her eyes flutter. Maybe she’s waking up. Or maybe not. I reach for my wristbands on the nightstand beside her, being careful not to knock over the lamp again like I did last time. My fingers brush the edge, but then I pause. My hand drops slightly. And before I can talk myself out of it, before I even think about what it means — I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead. Light. Quiet. Careful. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. But my entire chest tightens like I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I pull back slowly. My lips still tingle with the ghost of it — warm skin and still air and every unspoken word I’ve swallowed around her. My heart pounds louder than it should. I feel like I’ve crossed some invisible line, even though it didn’t feel wrong in the moment. It felt… natural. Like something I’ve done in another life. Something I’ll do again. And maybe that’s the part that scares me the most.