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You blinked awake and stretched, the first light of morning spilling softly through the blinds. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunbeams, catching the golden glow like tiny drifting stars. Outside, the city murmured quietly — distant footsteps, the faint voices, and the occasional chirp of a bird. The air smelled faintly of overnight coffee and the lingering scent of old books.

Sliding out of bed, you padded down the hallway in bare feet. The apartment was still. Haitham was sprawled on the sofa, half-covered with a blanket, eyes half-closed, flipping through a book with the kind of slow, deliberate laziness only he could manage. The gray cat (name him whatever you want) sat on the windowsill, watching the street with serene detachment, occasionally flicking its tail.

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