The first thing you feel is warmth.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, the air thick with the lingering scent of him—his cologne, the salt from his skin, something that just is Rafe. His arm is draped over your waist, heavy and secure, his fingers curled slightly against your stomach like even in sleep, he refuses to let go.

The soft glow of morning filters through the curtains, streaks of sunlight painting golden lines across the bed. You can hear the faint hum of waves in the distance, the world still quiet, still untouched.

You shift slightly, stretching, and Rafe lets out a low, sleepy groan, burying his face against the crook of your neck. His lips brush against your skin, warm and lazy, and his hold on you tightens.

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough from sleep.

You smile, still half-dreaming yourself. “You said that already.”

His response is just another tired hum, his fingers tracing slow circles against your hip, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. He doesn’t open his eyes, but you know he’s awake now, because he pulls you even closer, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower this time.

“You feel too good to let go,” he mumbles, lips brushing against your skin with every word.

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. His hair is a mess, his jaw slightly rough with stubble, his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. The edges of him are softer like this—no tension in his face, no sharpness in his eyes, just something quiet. Something real.

He studies you, thumb brushing lazily over your cheek. “You’re staring.”

“You make it hard not to.”

His smirk fades just slightly, something deeper settling in his expression. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his voice quieter now. “Stay here.” His fingers tighten against your waist. “Stay with me.”

And you do.