The first thing you felt was warmth. The second was the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek his chest, bare and still warm from sleep. You didn’t know what time it was, and for once, you didn’t care.

Tom was already awake. Not moving, not speaking. Just laying there like his whole world was pinned beneath your body. His fingers traced slow lines across your spine, absent and gentle, like he’d done it a hundred times without ever needing to look.

“Stay,” he said quietly, voice still rough with sleep.

You stirred. He didn’t let you move far.

“I mean it. Just… stay like this. For a little longer.”

You tilted your head to look at him golden morning light catching the edge of his lashes, the softness around his mouth, the part of him only you ever got to see.

“You always get up early,” you murmured.

He smiled, lazy and small.

“Not when you’re here.”

A pause.

“You sleep different when I hold you.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Slower. Deeper. Like you trust me to keep the dark out.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. The way you curled into him said enough.

Outside, the world waited. But in this room, in this moment, there was only you and him and the steady rhythm of hearts that didn’t need to speak to be heard.