The early morning light spills through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. You stir, blinking sleepily as the world comes into focus — and that’s when you hear it. Juraj’s voice, low and quiet, rumbling against your shoulder where his head rests. He’s still asleep, his arm draped lazily around your waist, but every few seconds, he murmurs something in Slovak. The words are unfamiliar, tangled with the kind of drowsy tenderness that makes your chest ache.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him. His brow furrows for a moment, then relaxes again as he pulls you closer, nuzzling into your neck. His voice softens, the foreign syllables rolling out like a lullaby. You don’t know what he’s saying — but the way he says it, slow and gentle, leaves no doubt it’s something sweet.

When he finally stirs, eyes still heavy with sleep, he catches the small smile on your face. “What?” he mumbles, his accent thick and rough with morning. You shake your head, and he grins, that sleepy smirk that always makes you melt. “Was I talking again?” he asks, already guessing the answer.

He laughs when you nod, burying his face in the pillow for a moment before looking back at you. “I hope it was good things,” he says, teasing, though his tone is soft — like he already knows it was. And when he presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, it’s clear enough: whatever he said in his dreams, he means every bit of it when he’s awake.