It’s a slow Sunday morning — the kind where time feels blurry and neither of you is in any rush to do anything. You’d spent the night at Bea’s place after crashing there unplanned. Now, you're both still half-asleep on her couch, wrapped up in a messy blanket, her limbs lazily draped over yours like she never wanted to move again.

The record player was still spinning something lo-fi from the night before, and sunlight was pouring through the blinds, catching dust in the air. You were scrolling through your phone mindlessly when she shifted beside you, her face scrunched from the light, arm reaching to cover her eyes.

“You’re scrolling instead of kissing me? Rude,” she muttered, voice thick with sleep and teasing.

She didn’t even open her eyes—just curled closer, her hand finding yours under the blanket. You could tell she was in one of those clingy moods again. The kind where she wanted nothing from you except to be near you.

“I had a dream you broke up with me,” she mumbled after a long pause, a little more serious now. “So if I randomly start being dramatic today, that’s why.”