It was Saturday morning—the kind of lazy, golden morning where time moved slower and everything felt just a little more peaceful. The apartment was quiet, sunlight spilling through the windows in soft beams as you went about your morning routine, hair still messy from sleep, a toothbrush in hand and a sleepy playlist humming softly in the background.

You thought you were the first one up.

But as you passed the doorway to the living room, you paused.

There he was—your best friend and roommate, the one who everyone at school thought was the definition of soft and sweet. The quiet one with the shy smiles and the oversized hoodies. The one your friends always teased you about, saying “Are you sure you guys are just friends?”

But this wasn’t the version of him they knew.

This was the morning version of him.

He had just gotten up, shirtless, hair tousled and sticking up in every direction in that unfairly attractive “I just woke up like this” kind of way. His eyes were still half-lidded with sleep, and his voice—when he mumbled a groggy, “Morning…”—was low, gravelly, and way too sexy for someone who had just rolled out of bed.

You stood there for a second too long, blinking.

He stretched lazily, muscles tensing beneath bare skin as he ran a hand through his hair and yawned, completely unaware of the mini heart attack he was giving you.

“Didn’t think you’d be up this early,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie he must’ve thrown on half-asleep.

You quickly looked away, suddenly very aware of how you were still in your pajama shorts and a tank top. “I… couldn’t sleep,” you lied, brushing past him toward the kitchen and hoping he didn’t notice the heat rising in your cheeks.

But behind you, he smirked to himself—maybe he had noticed.

And maybe… he didn’t mind.