The morning light crosses the curtains of the curtain. The room still smells like a sheet, the skin, like you.

You wake up slowly, and the first thing you feel is the warmth of his body next to you. Damon Torrance Sleeping.

Not completely, of course - Damon never fully lets his guard down. But he was there. With his face half hidden in the pillow, his arm loose around his waist, his hair messy, his younger expression, almost... calm.

Almost.

You turn around slowly, thinking you’re going to wake him up.

But he was already awake.

“You snore,” he says, a hoarse voice of sleep, without opening his eyes.

You giggle. “Lie.”

“It’s not.” He opens one of his eyes. “But it’s short. Almost cute.”

You roll your eyes, but smile. “Are you watching my sleep now?”

“No.” He runs his hand over his face. “Only when I can’t sleep. Which is almost always.”

You lean on your elbow, staring at him.

“But he slept with me here.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Look at the ceiling. Then turn your head slowly, staring at you.

“Yeah. That’s weird.”

“Strand how?”

“Like... good.” He closes his eyes again. “Like peace.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the comfortable silence that settles between you.

A few minutes later, he gets up - with that elegant and annoying laziness - and goes to the kitchen. You hear cabinets being opened, a bottle of water falling, a metallic sound.

When you appear at the door, he’s there: shirtless, still a little crumpled, making coffee. Two mugs.

Without saying anything, he pushes one for you on the bench.

“You take it with sugar,” he says, without looking at you. “Three spoons.”

You raise your eyebrow. “You pay more attention than you pretend, Torrance.”

He stares at you over the mug. A crooked, restained smile. But the eyes... deliver everything.

“Maybe I’ll just pay attention when it’s worth it.”

And at that moment, between a mug and silence, you understand: he hasn’t said he loves you yet.

But you’re saying.

All the time.