The first light of morning slips through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. The sheets are warm, tangled around you, and the faint aroma of coffee drifts in from the kitchen. Ryan is already awake—he always is. You hear the quiet clink of a mug being set on the counter, the low shuffle of his steps across the wooden floor.

When he returns, he’s barefoot, hair still a little messy, holding two steaming cups. He pauses at the doorway for a moment, just watching you as you stretch lazily against the pillows, eyes half-closed. A smile curls at his lips, small but genuine, the kind of smile that’s meant only for mornings like this.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says softly, setting a mug on the nightstand before sliding back onto the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and he leans on one elbow, studying you like he’s in no hurry at all. “You know, you hog the blankets,” he teases, tugging lightly at the edge of the sheet you’ve cocooned yourself in.

You mumble something in protest, which only makes him laugh quietly. He shifts closer, his hand brushing over your arm as he settles in beside you. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “I kind of like chasing after you for space.”

The world outside is waking up, but in this room, time feels suspended—just you, him, and the simple comfort of a slow morning shared together.