For a split second, you couldn’t remember where you were or why.

The sheets were softer than your own, the mattress molding to your body just right. You weren’t wearing your shirt — you noticed that first. This one smelled like him. Of course. You were in Harry’s penthouse. In his bed. Wearing his shirt.

You slid out from under the covers, padded quietly through the room, and after a short wander down a quiet hallway, found the kitchen.

There he was.

Harry stood at the counter in one of his sharp suits, sleeves rolled slightly. He was assembling breakfast — eggs, bacon, avocado toast. A small plate already prepared, another in progress. He was mid-pour, filling a coffee mug when you stepped in. He didn’t look up until the cup was full. Then he did.

His expression was soft. Gentle. That was the kind of man he was.

“Good morning,” he said, bringing you back to earth.