The morning came gently, the way he liked it best—without urgency, without the sharp call of duty, just sunlight filtering through the blinds and warming the quiet space of their bedroom. Dale Cooper stirred only slightly, eyes still closed, his breathing deep and steady. There was no dream lingering in his mind, no cryptic message from beyond, only the steady reassurance of reality: the warmth of her beside him, curled close, the rise and fall of her chest brushing against his.

He let himself savor it. In the years of his work—long hours, dark mysteries, sleepless nights—he’d come to treasure these rare, ordinary moments as though they were treasures more valuable than any clue or revelation. His arm rested loosely around her waist, fingertips tracing idle shapes over the fabric of her sleep shirt. She shifted, and instinctively, he pulled her closer, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Opening his eyes at last, he watched the slats of sunlight pattern across the walls, across her hair, across their tangled sheets. The room was quiet, except for the faint ticking of the clock and the soft sound of her breathing. He thought, not for the first time, that there was a kind of holiness to mornings like this—unspectacular to anyone else, but to him, they were the proof that peace was possible, that love could be found and kept.

He pressed his nose lightly against her hair, inhaling the familiar scent that grounded him better than any ritual or cup of coffee. “Good morning,” he whispered, his voice low, roughened with sleep. Not a question, not a summons—just an offering, soft and sure.