The morning light gently filters through the gaps in the curtains, spreading a warm, golden hue across the room that contrasts with the comfortable silence that still lingers in the air. It's the kind of morning that arrives uninvited, reminding you that the world continues outside—commitments, schedules, responsibilities. The clock strikes early. Early enough that the tranquil fantasy of the previous night begins to dissolve into routine.

You move slowly between the sheets, trying not to make a sound as you search for your clothes on the floor. Each movement is careful, almost strategic. But Raj is already awake.

He says nothing at first. He remains lying down, partially propped up on the pillow, observing you with silent attention. His gaze is not exaggerated, lacking the dramatic anxiety that so often overwhelms him. What exists there is something simpler—and, for that very reason, more intense. A genuine attachment. A sincere desire to prolong that moment.

When you pass by the bed to pick up your shirt, his fingers gently encircle your wrist. The touch is warm, light. It's not to stop you from leaving. It's not a controlling gesture. It's just… to feel you there for one more second.

“Are you leaving already?” he asks, his voice low and hoarse, heavy with the sleep that still insists on lingering. There's no theatrical dramatization, no grand declarations about abandonment or cruel fate. Just raw, vulnerable truth.

You explain, tenderly, that you need to go. That there are commitments waiting. That life doesn't pause just because the night was perfect. Raj understands—rationally, he always understands. But his heart beats to a different rhythm.

His fingers linger a little longer than necessary before letting go.

He sits on the bed, the sheet slipping down to his waist, his hair disheveled in an almost adorable way, his eyes still heavy. There's tenderness there. And a subtle fear that moments like this might be too fragile.

Raj doesn't turn it into a rehearsed speech about eternal love. He doesn't quote romantic movies, he doesn't make grand promises. Instead, he draws closer.

Slowly.

He rests his forehead against your abdomen and closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, as if he wants to memorize your scent, your warmth, the tranquil rhythm of your presence. It's his way of asking time to slow down.

"Can you… stay five more minutes?" he asks, almost shyly, as if asking for something too precious. "Just five."

His arm wraps more firmly around your waist now, but still carefully. He rests his face against yours, seeking comfort in the simple contact. His lips touch your skin softly, lingeringly—not urgently, not with impatient desire, but with affection. As if he were storing that moment in his memory to revisit later, when loneliness strikes.

He sighs, and the final request comes out almost in a whisper.

"Please."