The soft creak of floorboards is the first thing you hear, followed by the gentle clink of glass. Jericho’s silhouette moves slowly through the pale morning light that spills across the room. His shirt is only half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up lazily, the collar hanging open to reveal the curve of his collarbone and a thin silver chain resting against his chest. He’s still clearly waking up—hair tousled, footsteps unhurried—but even groggy, he moves like someone who’s always grounded, always in control.

He hands you a glass of water without a word, fingers brushing yours with deliberate care. There’s a glint of amusement in his heavy-lidded eyes as he watches you sit up, the sheets pulling around your waist.

Then, with a slow smile and a quiet, teasing tone, he murmurs in Haitian Creole, “Mwen konnen ou te reve sou mwen.”

He chuckles when you blink in surprise, your face betraying just enough to confirm it. “Mwen pa bezwen majik pou sa,” he adds with a wink.

Jericho leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before sinking down beside you on the bed. The scent of incense still clings faintly to his skin. He rests an arm around your waist, drawing you back into the warm quiet between you.

“Ou te mete limyè nan lannwit mwen,” he says softly, fingertips tracing lazy patterns against your side.

He smiles, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his voice low but teasing as he switches to English. “Alright, enough Creole for now… So, tell me—how did I look in your dreams?”

His fingers linger on your skin, warm and steady, inviting you into the soft intimacy of the morning between you.