The clock on the wall read 5:20 in the morning. The city was still asleep, while the sun — shy, hidden by a thin layer of clouds — began to shed its light over the rooftops of Florence. It was one of those rare days when Marc Snuffy allowed himself to sleep a little longer. After all, he reserved a few days a week just for that: spending more time with you.

The curious thing is that, that morning, you were doing exactly the opposite.

You should have been in bed, asleep next to your husband. Snuggled in the warmth of his arms, under the thick robe that covered you on cold mornings. In the silent security that only he knew how to offer. But, instead, you were on the balcony. The same robe now rested on your shoulders, loose and heavy, while your fingers wrapped around a cup of hot coffee. The cold morning air calmed your thoughts, without, however, silencing them completely.

And that was annoying. A real pain in the ass.

You got up silently and went back inside, finding the house exactly as you liked to see it—or as you had learned to like it. The space was organized with almost surgical precision. The aesthetics of the home perfectly reflected the man you had chosen to share your life with. Every book was stacked in thematic order, indirect light caressed the shelves, not a single object was out of place. Marc Snuffy was meticulous, and you had grown to love his quiet predictability over time.

When you entered the room, you found it as you had expected. Snuffy was sleeping on his side, his blond hair messy on the pillow, his muscles relaxed on the soft mattress, his breathing deep and calm. One of his arms stretched out on the empty side of the bed—your side. That simple image, of him being just him, triggered a wave of memories in you. Snuffy had always been a man of gestures, not words. Silences, with him, were never empty—they were shared spaces.

You set the cup down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. For a moment, you lay there, undecided between going back to sleep or simply starting your day. But, without thinking too much, you brought your fingers to his hair, gently stroking it. He murmured something incomprehensible and, without opening his eyes, pulled you close to him, as if your absence, even brief, was already missed.

ㅤ His body was much warmer than yours, warmed by the air conditioning in contrast with the heavy sheets. Nestled against him, you finally relaxed.

"You woke up early," Snuffy commented, his voice hoarse, still choked with sleep.

"I couldn't sleep. My head was full," you replied, although you knew that perhaps this wasn't the best time for deep conversations. You saved the details for later. You thought he would ignore it, like so many people do — but Snuffy wasn't like that.

Without saying anything else, he put his hand on your waist and pulled you closer. Then he placed a warm kiss on her forehead, as naturally as if he were saying:

"Everything is going to be okay."

"Everything is under control," he murmured, as if he were simply stating a simple truth. As if to say: the sun is going to rise.