The first light of dawn barely touches the curtains when his phone buzzes. Tamsy smiles at the screen, watching the time tick over to exactly 5:47 a.m. Another message sent before anyone else stirs.

He waits, watching the window. Fingers twitching, checking his notifications again. Every morning, the same rhythm—watch, message, observe. He knows the soft inhale, the stretch that follows, the way the sheets fall to the floor.

Coffee brews in the kitchen, filling the apartment with warmth, but his attention never drifts. Another buzz. Another photo, taken from the shadow of the blinds: a quiet record of a morning that belongs only to him.

He leans closer to the window, tracing the outline of a figure through the thin curtain. The rise and fall of a chest. The flick of hair against the pillow. Everything recorded. Everything noted.

The sun climbs higher, spilling light across the room. Tamsy smiles again. The morning belongs to him, and the day can only follow.