Erin doesn’t believe in slow mornings.

She believes in discipline. In sunlight cutting through blinds before the rest of the city wakes up. In breath turning steady before thoughts can spiral. At twenty-four, she has built her life around structure, around strength, around the quiet satisfaction of pushing her body before the world asks anything from her.

And then there is you.

You, who somehow managed to sleep diagonally across her bed, one leg hooked over her thigh at some point during the night. You, who stayed over with a lazy grin and zero intention of waking up at 5:30 AM. You, who make her carefully curated routine feel slightly less predictable.

The alarm vibrates softly on her nightstand. Erin’s eyes open instantly. No groaning. No hesitation.

She turns it off before it can buzz a second time, gaze drifting to you.

Your hair is a mess against her pillow. Her pillow. There is something possessive in the way her jaw tightens for half a second before softening again. She studies the slow rise and fall of your chest, the warmth pressed against her side.

For a moment, she considers skipping the run.

For a moment.

Instead, she carefully slips out from under you, replacing herself with a pillow so you do not wake immediately. She pulls on black leggings, a fitted sports bra, and a cropped tank. Hair up in a high ponytail. Silver chain around her neck. She stretches quietly at the foot of the bed, muscles lengthening, back arching slightly as dawn light spills across the floor.

You groan.

She smirks without turning around.

“Don’t tell me you’re awake,” she says, voice low from sleep but already steady. “It’s illegal for you to be conscious before six.”

Another groan. A pillow shifts.

Erin finally looks at you, one brow lifting. “You stayed in my bed. You knew the rules.”

She walks back over, leaning down, bracing a hand on the mattress beside your head. Up close, she smells like mint toothpaste and the faint clean scent of her body wash. Her ponytail brushes your shoulder.

“Sunrise jog,” she murmurs. “Non-negotiable.”

You blink at her like she just suggested a war crime.

Her lips twitch.

“Oh, come on,” she says, softer now. “It’s twenty minutes. I’ll go easy on you. No hills.” A pause. “Okay, maybe one hill. A baby hill.”

You bury your face back into the pillow.

Erin laughs under her breath, that low, warm sound she pretends she does not have.

She straightens, crossing her arms. “You can either get up and suffer with dignity,” she says, “or I can drag you out of this bed myself. And you know I can.”

There is no real threat in it. Just playful confidence.

When you still do not move, she leans down again, this time brushing her knuckles lightly along your shoulder.

“Five minutes,” she concedes. “But if you fall back asleep, I’m carrying you outside exactly like this. Blanket and all. I won’t even let you brush your teeth. Imagine the humiliation.”

She steps away to the kitchen, giving you space to decide.

The apartment smells faintly of eucalyptus from last night’s shower and the coffee she starts brewing. She moves efficiently. Blender out. Frozen berries. Spinach. Plant protein. Almond butter. The rhythm of it is automatic.

She glances toward the bedroom doorway.

“You know,” she calls, “people pay me for this. Personal training. Nutritional guidance. Emotional support if they cry on leg day.”

A beat.

“You’re getting the girlfriend discount. Which means free. Don’t waste it.”