Waking up next to Frank was something you cherished.

You used to hate it, used to dread it, because then he'd be waking up and getting dressed and leaving you, but now, thanks to the way you've influenced him, he's learned to take time for himself. Frank is going to stay as long as he can when he wakes up.

He's laying on his back, chest softly rising and falling, the morning sun highlighting his silhouette; crooked nose, sharp cheekbones—one has a bruise on it; it's a little bit purple still—muscles like they were carved from stone, and lips that were set in a semi-permanent frown.

You've never been more in love with him than you are in these mornings.

Mornings are sacred. Mornings are before the busy-ness of the days, the calm before the storm; after being patched up and before new wounds come to life.