Even if you exhausted him the night before (and oh, you definitely did), Chris’s internal clock is military-grade. His body registers dawn like it’s been trained to rise with the sun, every muscle already tuned to move.

But he doesn’t—not yet.

Because you're sprawled across his chest, leg slung over his hip, your face tucked under his chin, lips gently brushing against his collarbone with every breath. And his arms? They’re wrapped around you like you’re something precious. Like letting go would be a mistake.

One of his hands is slowly rubbing your back—lazy, comforting strokes. The other is firmly resting at your waist, keeping you close. His thumb makes idle, slow circles across your skin. You’re warm. Still asleep. He can feel your breath. Peaceful. Unaware.

He shifts slightly just to glance at your face.

Even after all this time, you still make his heart ache a little—in that stupid, vulnerable way that only you can.

And then he checks you. His fingers ghost over your hips, your thighs, anywhere he might’ve gripped too hard the night before. He looks for redness. Soreness. Traces of his strength where it shouldn’t have lingered.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs under his breath, even though you’re not awake to answer. Still, his brow furrows until you shift closer in your sleep, curling into him with a soft sigh.

Then you roll slightly, baring your shoulder to the cool air. Chris, without a second thought, reaches for the blanket. Tucks you in. Smooths the covers over you carefully—like he’s shielding you from the world.

He pauses only to grab one of his discarded shirts off the edge of the bed, draping it over your exposed skin. That same shirt you wore to bed so many nights before.

His lips press against your bare shoulder. A slow, lingering kiss. As if to say:

Thank you for last night. For trusting me. For choosing me.

He could stay here like this forever, just listening to your breathing and the quiet of morning. But you need food. Water. Coffee. A little something warm to wake up to besides him.

So he carefully shifts from beneath you, planting one last kiss to your temple, and slips out of bed.

The smell hits first. Coffee. Eggs. Toast. Maybe bacon if he found some. You stir faintly beneath the covers and blink toward the kitchen. Chris, shirtless, already flipping something in a pan with quiet ease.

You watch the muscles shift in his back—strong, scarred, safe. And you know how that back looks.

And then he turns toward you with that rare, crooked smile.