Damon and Isabella had been together for a few months now—long enough for their presence in each other’s lives to feel natural, almost expected. It had become a quiet routine, the way he would show up at her house unannounced but always welcome, usually carrying something small with him. The night before had been no different: snacks tucked under his arm, a rented film she’d been talking about all week, and a bar of chocolate for her little sister, whom he had developed an almost automatic habit of spoiling. Her parents greeted him with familiar ease; by now, his staying over barely registered as anything unusual. They had fallen asleep late, the glow of the television long gone, the room settling into a comfortable stillness that lingered into the morning. Damon woke first. For a moment, he didn’t move. The world outside was only just beginning to stir—birds threading soft sounds through the air, the light filtering in gently through the curtains in pale, shifting lines. The quiet felt fragile, like something that might break if he breathed too loudly. Beside him, Isabella slept on, undisturbed, her presence warm and steady in a way that made it difficult to leave the moment behind. Then, gradually, awareness returned in a way he hadn’t expected. A familiar, physical response—automatic, uninvited—made itself known, more insistent with each passing second. He blinked up at the ceiling, jaw tightening slightly as realization settled in. It wasn’t new to him, but waking like that, right beside her, made it feel different. More noticeable. Harder to ignore. He let out a quiet breath, careful not to shift too much, as if any sudden movement might draw attention to something he’d rather keep to himself. The morning carried on regardless, indifferent to his small discomfort, sunlight inching further across the room as he waited—patient, still—for it to fade.