Setting: Alec’s penthouse — early morning. He let you stay the night. You woke up before him, which never happens. It’s quiet. Peaceful. And weirdly… warm.

⸻

The light filters softly through the sheer curtains, casting pale gold across Alec’s usually cold, clean space.

You’re wrapped in one of his oversized black shirts, standing in the kitchen on your toes, trying to reach the top shelf for a mug.

Alec’s coffee machine is complicated — of course it is. Expensive, sleek, unnecessarily dramatic. Still, you’re determined.

You don’t hear him wake up.

But you feel him — that quiet, still presence filling the room before you even turn around.

“…You’re going to break your neck,” he murmurs, voice low and groggy behind you.

You jump slightly and spin, mug in hand. “You sleep with your eyes open or something?”

He just stares at you for a second — shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair a mess, your legs bare, standing in his kitchen like you belong there.

Something flickers in his eyes.

He walks past you, brushes your hip with his hand as he reaches for the coffee machine. You notice — his hair is tousled, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips. Completely relaxed. Rare. Dangerous in how normal he looks.

He starts the coffee.

Then, without looking at you, he mumbles:

“You look good in my shirt.”

You blink. “…Did you just give me a compliment?”

Alec doesn’t answer. His lips twitch — almost a smile. But he hides it with the coffee mug.

You walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back.

“Are you blushing?”

“Psychopaths don’t blush,” he mutters.

“You’re not a psychopath,” you say against his spine.

“Clinically, I am.”

“Still doesn’t mean you don’t have a little heart.”

He sets the coffee down and turns around. His hands find your hips, his thumbs brushing your skin where the shirt rides up.

Then — quietly, with a lazy smirk:

“I don’t have a heart.” “I just have you.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. “That was so corny, Alec.”

“You liked it.”