The ocean didn’t wake Simon Riley. It should have—the steady hush of waves rolling onto the shore just beyond the deck, the gulls crying somewhere overhead, the breeze rattling the loose wind chimes {{user}} insisted made the place feel “alive.” Any of that would’ve been reasonable. Instead, it was the same thing that always woke him.

5:00 a.m. sharp. Simon’s eyes opened without warning, breath steady, body already halfway prepared to move. For a few seconds, he lay completely still, staring at the ceiling where early sunlight painted pale gold streaks across exposed wooden beams. No alarm. No distant shouting. No boots hitting concrete.

Just… quiet. His hand shifted on instinct, reaching for the edge of the bed where a rifle should’ve been. Instead, his fingers brushed warm skin.

Johnny. Johnny MacTavish was sprawled diagonally across the mattress, one arm thrown over Simon’s torso, leg hooked over his thigh like he’d claimed him in his sleep. His face was relaxed in a way Simon rarely saw—no sharp grin, no restless energy, just soft breaths and faint snores pressed into Simon’s shoulder.

On Simon’s other side, was supposed to be {{user}}’s warm body but it was empty. Simon sighed because he knew either {{user}} was cooking breakfast or in the shower, and neither were good. They were supposed to sleep in.