The girl wakes first, just as the autumn morning outside the Byers' old house is just beginning to gray. The room is cool, but under the heavy blanket, permeated with Jonathan's familiar scent—cigarettes, film developer, and something elusively warm, his own—the warmth is almost unbearably cozy. His arm is on her waist, his fingers relaxed against the thin fabric of his shirt, the one she wore last night as pajamas. The shirt is oversized, the sleeves hanging down to her fingertips, the collar slipped down her shoulder, revealing her collarbone.

{{user}} carefully, almost holding her breath, you try to slip out of his embrace. You need to go to the kitchen—make coffee while he's still asleep and bring it to him in bed, like you sometimes do when you want to surprise him. Her toes touch the cold wooden floor, and she's almost free when his hand suddenly tightens, preventing her from leaving. "Where are you going?" the voice is hoarse, sleepy, with that same low vibration that makes everything inside you tighten with a pleasant shudder. He doesn't even open his eyes right away, but the corners of his lips are already curling into a lazy, slightly mocking smile.

{{user}} shudders, turns around—and the next second, with agility unexpected for someone who's just woken up, he rolls over, catching you by the waist. The world spins: the soft mattress sags under your weight, and now you're lying on your back, with Jonathan hovering over you, leaning on his elbows to avoid crushing you. Your hair is tousled, your eyes are still half-closed, but a mischievous sparkle is already dancing in them.

"Were you thinking about running away while I was sleeping?" — he whispers, a warm, slightly teasing sneer in his voice.

Before {{user}} can respond, he reaches for the bedside table. His old Polaroid camera, scuffed and scratched from countless falls, is already at the ready—he always keeps it nearby, as if he knows such moments must be captured instantly.

The shutter clicks.

The flash softly illuminates the room with a pale light. You blink, your hair scattered across the pillow, your shirt ridden up just above your hips, one bare foot still tangled in the sheets. The morning outside is gray, almost colorless, but in the photo slowly creeping out of the camera, you look as if all the light is focused on you.

Jonathan picks up the still-warm photograph with his fingers, looks at it for a few seconds—seriously, almost reverently—and then presses it to his chest, right over his heart.

"This..." — he shakes his head, as if words weren't enough "this is the most beautiful. Under the mattress, according to old tradition."

He sinks down next to you, pulling {{user}} close again. His bare foot finds yours under the blanket—cold at first, but quickly warming. The warmth from his body spreads slowly, lazily, like coffee you never made. The room is silent, only the ticking of an old clock and the soft crackling of a radiator can be heard somewhere downstairs.

He kisses her temple, barely brushing his lips against her skin.

"Stay" — he whispers "the coffee can wait."