The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting delicate golden streaks across the apartment floor. The window, slightly ajar, let in the crisp breath of morning. It carried the faint scent of damp earth and distant blossoms, mingling with the familiar warmth of herbal tea. Ethan’s plants thrived in this golden hush, their leaves catching the sunlight, drinking it in like a quiet ritual. The light trickled in through sheer curtains, pooling onto the wooden floors, stretching in soft, dappled patterns across the room.

Ethan moved with quiet precision, fingers brushing gently against the leaves of his plants, murmuring inaudible reassurances to them as he inspected their condition. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration—the faint crease that always appeared when he focused—and he carefully adjusted a stray stem to maintain the symmetry that soothed him.

In the kitchen, the kettle let out a slow, curling stream of steam, dissolving into the air. {{user}} stood over the stove, the faint scent of chamomile rising in lazy curls from the tea he was brewing. He glanced over at Ethan, watching the way the botanist moved between the plants and flowers as if it were a world only he could understand.

The morning routine was unchanged, predictable, exactly as Ethan needed it to be—{{user}} wouldn’t dream of disrupting that.

Instead, he set the cup down on the countertop, waiting for Ethan to finish his careful tending. He knew better than to interrupt, this was Ethan’s world, his sanctuary. No words were needed. Ethan would come when the rhythm of his morning allowed.