You wake before the sun. Not because you want to, but because he does.

Simon stirs beside you, the bed dipping slightly as he moves. You feel the shift in air before the soft kiss brushes your forehead, a whisper of affection wrapped in calloused lips and sleep-rough breath.

“Up, love,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, laced with just enough warmth to make the early hour bearable.

You groan. He chuckles.

Still half-asleep, you drag yourself out from under the blankets, feet hitting the cold floor with a wince. Simon’s already in motion—pulling on his usual black compression shirt and sweats, boots laced tight. You throw on your leggings and an old hoodie, rubbing your eyes as he hands you your water bottle like clockwork.

The kitchen is silent, save for the buzz of the fridge and the clink of shaker bottles. He makes your pre-workout, like always. Doesn’t say much—he never does this early—but he slides the cup across the counter and taps it once with his finger. A silent drink up.

You sip. It’s awful. He grins like he knows it.

The drive to the gym is quiet. The sky is still dark, tinted a soft navy that hints at sunrise. Simon’s hand rests on your thigh as he drives, thumb tracing gentle circles over your leg, the only soft thing about him at this hour. The radio is off. There’s no need to fill the silence.

When you get to the gym, the world is still asleep. The parking lot is nearly empty. Inside, it smells like rubber mats, metal, and faint regret. He holds the door for you, then steps inside. “So, what are we working on today?”