The air is cool, slipping in through the window, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and something sweet. He wakes slowly, the light already creeping across the floor in soft strips. You’re still asleep, tucked into the corner of the bed, hoodie sleeves loose and tangled around your fingers. The room is quiet—still, except for the faint hum of the other dorms beginning to wake.

He moves quietly, stepping over rackets and books, filling the kettle, grinding beans. The steam rises, curling in the cool air. Two mugs—yours chipped, his plain. He places them carefully on the windowsill where the light catches the rim of the mugs just right.

He sits on the edge of the bed, watching the world outside shift into motion. The first few sounds of the collage—distant students, footsteps—creep into the space. He lets the quiet settle around him, waiting for you to wake, not rushing, not expecting.

The room feels simple, steady, like it always does. The morning hums with nothing dramatic, just the kind of peace that settles in without being noticed. The air, the warmth, the soft rhythm of the day beginning.