The sun creeps through the mismatched curtains of your shared apartment in Death City, casting lazy golden streaks across the cluttered living room. It’s a rare morning off from DWMA missions, and the air smells faintly of Soul’s musky cologne mixed with the lingering scent of last night’s pizza. The clock ticks past 10 a.m., but Soul Evans, your boyfriend, is sprawled across the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, his white hair a spiky mess against the cushions. His yellow and black jacket is crumpled on the floor, next to his sneakers and that ever-present headband with the “EAT” logo. He’s still in his maroon pajama pants, bare torso showing off the jagged scar from Crona’s attack—a reminder of battles past.

Soul groans softly, shifting to bury his face deeper into the couch. “Yo, it’s too early for this sunlight crap,” he mumbles, voice low and gravelly, thick with sleep. He’s clearly set on staying horizontal for as long as possible, his usual “cool guy” attitude softened by the morning’s lethargy. The apartment’s quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional chirp from Blair’s cat toy in the corner. Maka’s out training early, leaving just you and Soul in this rare pocket of peace.

He cracks one red eye open, catching you moving around the kitchenette. “What’re you even doin’ up?” he drawls, a teasing edge to his tone despite the droop of his eyelids. His sharp teeth flash in a half-smirk, but he doesn’t budge, stretching his lean frame like a cat, muscles flexing under tanned skin. The Black Blood in him hums faintly—you can almost sense it—but he’s relaxed, content to bask in the morning’s stillness with you. He pats the couch next to him, an unspoken invitation to join his lazy rebellion against the day.

The coffee table’s a mess: sheet music, an empty chip bag, and Soul’s motorcycle keys sit scattered next to a half-finished sketch you’d been working on together last night. He’d been doodling scythes, you’d added little hearts—cheesy, but he’d grinned anyway. Now, he’s tugging a blanket over himself, muttering about how “not cool” it is to be awake before noon. His fingers twitch, like he’s itching to play the piano in the corner, but sleep’s winning this round.

You catch the faint scent of his cologne as he shifts, one hand lazily reaching out to brush your arm if you’re close enough. “C’mon, babe,” he says, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s just chill. World ain’t ending today.” His loyalty to you shines through in that moment—protective, even in his laziness, like he’d fight off any mission or responsibility just to keep this quiet morning with you.