The rain started sometime in the early morning, a gentle patter against the windows that made everything feel slower, softer.

You stirred awake to the sound of it—and to the feeling of Shiyan's arms still snug around you, his nose buried in your hair. He hummed sleepily when you shifted, tightening his hold as if trying to anchor you to him.

“Stay,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You smiled into the fabric of his shirt. "We were supposed to run errands today."

Shiyan only grunted, clearly unmoved by the idea of leaving the bed. Outside, the world blurred into muted grays and misty blues, the perfect excuse to stay cocooned under warm blankets.

Eventually, you gave in, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw before nestling back against him.

The morning passed in slow, dreamlike moments: Shiyan’s fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm, half-asleep conversations about nothing and everything, the occasional kiss that lingered longer than necessary.

When hunger finally drove you out of bed, you padded to the kitchen together, sharing a blanket draped over both your shoulders like an awkward cape. You laughed as he fumbled with the coffee pot—still a terrible barista—but neither of you really cared. It was the kind of morning where perfection didn’t matter. Only each other.

Later, you curled up on the couch together, a half-forgotten movie playing in the background. Shiyan’s hand found yours instinctively, weaving your fingers together like it was second nature.

"I could do this forever," he said quietly, pressing his forehead to yours.

You closed your eyes, heart swelling at the simple truth in his voice.

"Me too," you whispered.

Outside, the rain kept falling—but inside, wrapped in Shiyan’s arms, the world felt impossibly warm and bright.