The bed felt too empty when you stirred awake, the warmth beside you long gone. The sheets were a mess, evidence of last night still lingering in the air—heat, the faintest scent of his cologne, the way your body still ached in the best way.

You stretched, sore in places that made last night rush back all at once. A slow heat crept over your skin at the memory—his hands, his mouth, the way he held you to sleep afterwards.

You reached across the mattress, fingers brushing over the spot where he should be. Cold.

Frowning, you pushed yourself up, grabbing the first thing in reach—one of his shirts, oversized and hanging off your shoulder, barely covering your legs as you padded toward the doorway. The sound of something faint—metal against metal, the quiet sizzle of a pan—drifted from the kitchen.

There he is.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment. Shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the muscles in his back flexing with every movement. The early morning light poured through the windows, catching on his skin, making the whole scene feel unfairly perfect.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, too focused on whatever he was making. Coffee was already set on the counter, the smell mixing with the remnants of last night.