Mornings were like this now.

Quiet. Gentle.

The world outside the cottage stirred first—birds calling to one another, bamboo whispering as the wind passed through. No alarms. No urgency. Just the slow return of light filtering through thin curtains.

You woke tucked against his chest, his arm loose around your back, skin warm beneath your cheek. He slept shirtless as he always did, breath steady, heart calm beneath your ear. Sometimes you were the one held like this. Other mornings, you woke with his arms wrapped around you from behind, his face pressed into your shoulder, still half-lost in sleep.

And occasionally—your favorite—you’d wake to find him curled into you instead, head resting against your chest, the great swordsman content to be the smaller presence for once.

You cherished those mornings most.

Because there were times before—too many—when the bed had been cold.

Mornings where you woke alone after nights that had meant everything. Where all that remained were flowers on the table, a folded letter, herbs carefully arranged near the door. Proof he had been there. Proof he had loved you. And proof he had left again.

There were nights he came only while you slept, slipping in like the storm itself, leaving supplies behind as silently as he arrived. Nights you almost caught him—only to hear the door close minutes later.

And nights worse than that.

Nights where you ran into the rain, barefoot and shaking, calling his name until your voice broke. Begging him to stay. Begging him to understand that love didn’t have to mean leaving.

He used to say being with you made him weak.

That you were his one vulnerability.

That letting go was his way of protecting you.

You never agreed.

And now—finally—those nights were gone.

Now there were no empty beds after intimacy. No unanswered storms. No letters meant to replace his presence.

Only this.

You traced your fingers gently along his face, familiar now with every line and scar. He stirred at the touch, turning his head slightly, leaning into your palm without thinking. A quiet sound left him—soft, content.

“Morning,” you murmured.

He smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then your collarbone. Unhurried. Certain. As if he had nowhere else to be.

You teased his face lightly, brushing your thumb along his cheek, and he caught your wrist with a lazy hand, bringing it to his chest—right over his heart. A silent reminder.

Here. With you. Still breathing. Still staying.

For the first time, mornings weren’t something to fear.

They were simply… home.