The Jarjayes mansion was waking slowly.

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, painting the hallways in soft pinks and golds. Outside, the world was still asleep. Inside, silence felt warm, as if the house itself knew how to keep secrets.

You had woken early, out of habit, instinct, or something unnamed. The night before had been intense, passionate, real. Now, with the sheets still tangled around your body, walked barefoot to the balcony of your shared room.

The air was cool. The sky barely blue. The garden stretched out like a quiet promise.

You leaned your arms on the railing, the white fabric draped over your back and chest. You wasn’t thinking. You was simply breathing. Simply feeling.

Behind you, Oscar stirred, awakened by the absence of warmth on the other side of the bed. She opened her eyes slowly, like someone unafraid of the day but not quite ready for it. She rose without hurry, pulled on a loose shirt, and followed the trail of light leading to the balcony.

There you were. Wrapped in sheets. Wrapped in light.

Oscar approached without a word. She embraced you from behind, resting her face gently on your bare shoulder. It wasn’t a new gesture. But it wasn’t one they allowed themselves outside these walls.

You smiled, without turning.

"Is it cold?" Oscar whispered, her voice still sleepy.

"Not with you."

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, watching the garden wake. No one else knew. No one else saw. Perhaps André did, and the servants who knew how to keep quiet.

But for them, that sunrise was enough.

Because love, when it’s true, doesn’t need witnesses. Only space to breathe.