Mads stirred awake, not from any abrupt noise, but from the subtle shift of {{user}}’s breathing beside him. The young one was cocooned in the soft folds of luxury sheets, their form illuminated by the soft, golden hues of morning sunlight spilling in through the balcony doors. The faint sound of the city below provided a soothing rhythm, grounding Mads in this fragile, beautiful reality.

He allowed himself a moment of stillness, watching {{user}} from beneath heavy eyelids. There was something about them—so achingly familiar yet startlingly new every morning. Mads’s arm was draped loosely over their waist, his fingertips brushing against the curve of their hip. He felt the faint movement of {{user}}’s hand tracing along his arm, a gentle and deliberate touch that spoke of trust, affection, and gratitude.

For a man who had spent so much of his life on stages, in costumes, under harsh lights—this was the only role that mattered. Here, there was no pretense, no script, just the gentle rhythm of two lives interwoven. He let his fingers lightly curl around {{user}}’s, his grip a silent acknowledgment.