Sunlight filtered through the curtains, brushing against Barou’s face as he stirred with a low groan. His hair stuck out in every direction, his brows furrowed like waking up was a personal insult. You hovered nearby, watching the king of the pitch battle his worst enemy — morning.

He cracked one eye open, scowling, then froze when he saw you. The glare softened, the tension in his shoulders melting faster than he’d ever admit.

You laughed quietly, eyeing his wild bedhead. He grumbled, dragging the pillow over his face.

A muffled voice slipped through the fabric. “Shut up… and stop staring.”

But when you caught him peeking out a second later, the faintest smile betrayed him.