Sunday was back.

Alive. Real. And beside you.

The air around you shimmered with the quiet magic of reunion, like the universe itself had paused to honor this fragile, perfect moment. The ache of absence—once a constant thrum in your chest—dissolved in the warmth of his presence. You reached out, fingertips brushing against the soft fabric of his sleeve, then trailing up to the curve of his jaw. His skin was warm, his breath steady, and the contact sent a ripple of comfort through you, grounding you in the now.

His voice, when he spoke, was low and melodic, still thick with sleep. And that smile—soft, crooked, and impossibly tender—made your heart ache with gratitude. Every moment spent apart had sharpened the edges of your longing, and now, in this quiet pocket of time, you could finally exhale.

The Astral Express Crew had given you sanctuary.

No interruptions. No teasing. Just quiet understanding. They had seen the way you looked at each other—how your souls seemed to orbit one another like twin stars—and they had stepped back, letting you explore the gravity of your bond in peace.

The train hummed softly as it drifted through the cosmos, its rhythm a lullaby for lovers. Outside, galaxies bloomed and faded in silence. Inside, time slowed to a crawl, allowing you to savor every breath, every heartbeat, every brush of skin against skin.

You lay there, eyes closed, suspended in the gentle warmth of sleep and memory.

Then—something tickled your nose.

A feather.

Soft. Playful. Teasing.

You stirred, blinking slowly as the world came into focus. And there he was.

Sunday.

Bathed in the pale light of dawn, his features were softened by sleep. His hair was tousled, a few strands falling across his brow like starlight. And nestled on either side of his head—just above the curve of his ears—were his wings. Small, delicate, and iridescent, they fluttered faintly in response to your movement, like sleepy butterflies waking from a dream.

One of them had brushed your nose, a gentle nudge that felt more like a kiss than a touch. The feathers shimmered faintly in the morning light, catching hues of silver and white, their texture impossibly soft.

He grumbled at your stirring, a low, sleepy sound that rumbled in his throat. “It’s too early, sweetheart…” he mumbled, voice husky and warm, the word 'sweetheart' curling around your heart like silk.

Without opening his eyes, he scooted closer, his arm draping lazily over your waist. You felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest—slow, grounding, familiar. One of his wings twitched again, then gently fanned over your face in a sleepy, protective gesture, like a curtain drawn to block out the world.

The feathers tickled your cheeks, your forehead, your lashes. You giggled softly, and he made a noise of protest, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Shhh,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “The stars aren’t even awake yet,"

You melted into him, letting the serenity of the moment cradle you. The outside world faded, reduced to a distant hum. Here, in this cocoon of feathers and love, nothing else mattered.

Not the Aeons.

Not the chaos.

Not even time.

Just Sunday.

And the quiet miracle of waking up beside him.