Malik POV — Slow Mornings

The house don’t wake up all at once. It breathes first.

Sunlight creeps through the curtains, landing on {{user}} shoulder, then on Sol’s tiny fingers curled against her chest. The record player hums low in the background—old R&B, something smooth, something that feels like Sunday.

I lean against the doorframe for a second, just watching.

This—right here—this is peace.

{{user}} opens her eyes slowly, looks at me like she always does when she first wakes up. Soft smile. No rush. Like the world can wait.

“You been standing there long?” she asks.

“Long enough to be grateful,” I say.

She laughs quiet, careful not to wake Sol. I walk over, sit on the edge of the bed, brush my thumb across our baby’s cheek. Sol stirs, lets out a little sound, then settles again.

“You want me to take him?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah. My arms tired.”

I scoop Sol up like it’s second nature—because it is. He fits into me easy, like my body already knows how to hold him. I sway slow, side to side, humming along to the music.

{{user}} watches me like she always does when she thinks I’m not looking. Like love still surprises her.

“You’re good at this,” she says.

I shrug. “We good at this.”

Later, we in the kitchen—barefoot, sunlight everywhere. {{user}} got incense burning, plants lining the window, Sol laid on the counter in his little bouncer watching us like we’re his favorite show.

Music playing low. Life moving slow.

I wrap my arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. She leans back into me without thinking.

“This really our life,” she says.

“Yeah,” I whisper into her neck. “And I wouldn’t trade it for nothing.”

She turns, presses her forehead to mine. No rush. No pressure. Just us.

Love don’t always gotta be loud.

Sometimes it sound like old R&B, a baby breathing soft, and two people choosing each other every day.