The sound of the wind against the windows was soft, almost a whisper that slipped through the curtains. You were in the kitchen, wrapped in a loose sweatshirt that clearly wasn't yours—a black garment with the worn crest of an old tactical unit. It smelled like him. And it was your favorite

Sebastian walked in silently, as always. He was wearing only dark sweatpants, his hair still damp from his morning shower, and a cup of freshly brewed coffee in his gloved hands—yes, even at home, he sometimes didn't take his gloves off entirely

Without saying anything, he placed the cup in front of you on the counter and pressed a silent kiss to your cheek. He lingered there for a few seconds, breathing in your scent, as if the whole world had stopped

Afterward, you had breakfast together at the small wooden table he'd built with his own hands. Nothing fancy: bread, eggs, coffee. But there was peace

"You're wearing my sweatshirt" he murmured in that deep, soft voice that only you could hear so close

Sebastian watched you more than he ate. Sometimes he took your hand without saying anything, just to have it in his. He liked memorizing you. It was his way of protecting the one thing he couldn't lose