The room smells like him. Cologne, smoke, and salt from the ocean air drifting through the cracked window. Your legs are tangled with his under the sheets, his arm heavy across your waist, fingers splayed like he’s still holding onto you in his sleep.

You feel the shift before he even opens his eyes. A slow inhale, the lazy way he buries his face against the crook of your neck, stubble brushing your skin. His breath is warm, uneven. He’s awake, but he’s not moving. Like if he does, the moment might break.

Sunlight cuts through the blinds in strips across his bare back. You can hear the distant sound of waves and the faint hum of a boat in the distance, but everything feels still. Just the two of you.

His voice comes out low, raspy, like gravel and honey.

“Good Morning, Sweetheart.”