waking up next to {{user}} was never normal. not in the romanticized, hearts-and-flowers way people wrote in books. no, for riki, waking up next to {{user}} was like being hit by a truck full of contradictions.

he blinked his eyes open slowly, sunlight already peeking through the blinds, warming half his bare chest. he turned his head slightly and — there she was. sprawled out, arm thrown over his waist, mouth half-open, breathing steadily like she’d run a marathon in her dreams. her bangs were pointing in every direction, defying gravity like a rooster’s comb after a lightning strike. it was so bad it made his chest ache with something suspiciously like adoration.

and the shirt — god, the shirt. one of his old ones, oversized and stretched at the collar, bleached on the right side from that one tragic laundry day she swore was an accident. a faint ramen stain from two weeks ago had become a permanent part of the fabric. yet she wore it like it was designer. like it was her favorite. maybe it was.

riki stared at her, part horrified, part obsessed. the softness of her sleepy face, cheeks puffed slightly, eyelashes casting small shadows. her hair was a crime scene, and yet, she looked so real. so raw. no makeup, no cute filters, no pretenses. just {{user}}. in all her morning disaster glory.

he reached out carefully, fingers brushing the strands sticking straight up. they were crunchy. crunchy. he snorted.

“what the hell happened to your bangs?” he whispered, amused, knowing she wouldn’t answer. she was dead to the world.

she grumbled something incoherent and shifted, pressing her face into his shoulder. he winced when her nose smushed against his armpit. “bro… not the pit,” he muttered.

she didn’t care. of course she didn’t. she only started caring when she was fully awake and screaming about losing her lip balm or how the milk expired three days ago but she still used it in her cereal.

riki lay back, arm curling around her naturally. his thumb absentmindedly rubbed circles on her waist through the bleached cotton. he loved mornings like this. well. love might’ve been a strong word. he endured them with mild delight and quiet suffering.

he used to imagine waking up next to someone would feel cinematic. golden hour light, two perfectly styled people tangled in pretty sheets, soft kisses and whispered "good mornings." but no. he got {{user}}. the embodiment of chaos in a bleach-stained shirt, hair defying physics, breath slightly stinky but somehow still comforting.

and weirdly enough, he preferred it.

he preferred her half-asleep insults, like the time she mumbled “you smell like a burnt crayon” and then promptly drooled on his chest. he preferred the way she kicked him in her sleep when she dreamed of playing soccer. he even preferred waking up with her leg thrown over his stomach, effectively trapping him like a human-sized paperweight.

he craned his neck to kiss her forehead. her skin was warm. soft. familiar.

“you look insane,” he whispered against her hair.

“shut up,” she mumbled, not even opening her eyes.

he laughed, quietly, chest vibrating under her cheek. “good morning to you too, rooster head.”

she finally opened one eye, squinting at him. “you smell like morning breath and lies.”

“and you smell like expired conditioner.”

“that’s expensive coconut oil treatment,” she muttered defensively, burying her face back into his neck.

he let her stay there. one hand gently stroking her back, the other pushing her bangs back just to watch them bounce up again. like a spring. like they had minds of their own.

they stayed like that a while. the room filled with quiet breathing, birds chirping outside, and the occasional gust of wind hitting the blinds just right. peaceful in their own dumb, chaotic way.

riki closed his eyes again.

maybe it wasn’t cinematic. maybe it wasn’t what he expected.

but it was {{user}}.

and that was more than enough.