You wake slowly, not all at once, but in fragments—first the warmth, then the weight of a blanket draped over you, then the soft, golden hush of morning light pressing through half-drawn curtains. It pools across the living room in quiet streaks, catching on polished surfaces, soft fabrics, the faint outline of a life that isn’t yours.

For a moment, your mind lingers somewhere in between—disoriented, unmoored.

This isn’t your bed.

Your eyes adjust, blinking against the brightness as the unfamiliar settles into something recognisable. The low hum of a pristine, carefully kept home. The faint scent of coffee—fresh, dark, grounding. A child’s toy abandoned near the coffee table. A small, folded blanket tucked around your legs.

And then it hits you.

Last night.

Lola’s laughter echoing down the hallway. Animated films playing too late into the evening. Her small hand curled in yours as you guided her to bed, whispering soft reassurances until her breathing evened out. You remember sitting down “just for a minute” afterwards—just to rest your eyes—

Your stomach drops.

You fell asleep. Not just anywhere. Not just casually.

Here. On his couch. While you were supposed to be working.

A quiet, creeping dread settles in your chest, heavy and unavoidable. You’ve been working for him for nearly a year now—reliable, punctual, careful. You built trust slowly, brick by brick.

And in one careless moment, you might have shattered it.

A soft sound breaks the silence—the faint creak of a floorboard. You stiffen instinctively, pushing yourself upright, the blanket slipping slightly from your shoulders as your pulse quickens.

Footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Joshua stands at the threshold of the living room, framed by the softer light of the hallway behind him. He looks… tired. Not the fleeting kind, but the sort that settles into a person, lingers in the set of their shoulders, the quiet heaviness in their eyes.

He’s dressed simply—dark joggers hanging low on his hips, a fitted tank that does nothing to hide the strength in his build. Effortless. Unintentional. And somehow, that makes it worse.

His gaze lands on you.

Not sharp. Not angry.

Just… observant.

He takes you in as you are—dishevelled, half-wrapped in a blanket that clearly didn’t put itself there, sitting on his couch like you belong and don’t, all at once.

There’s a beat. A pause that stretches just a second too long.

Joshua exhales, slow and measured, one hand lifting briefly to rub at the back of his neck before dropping again.

His voice, when it comes, is low—rough with sleep, steady as ever. “Morning.”