The first thing you notice is warmth.

Not just the comfortable heat of the blankets cocooning you, but something steadier—Cloud. He’s solid beneath you, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you between sleep and wakefulness. The air is crisp with the early morning chill, but his body is warm, grounding. Safe.

You shift slightly, your cheek pressing against his bare shoulder, and that’s when you feel it—his hand resting against your back, unmoving but firm, as if he’s been holding you like this for a while. The slow, rhythmic brush of his thumb against your spine is what pulls you further from sleep, a touch so absentminded yet deliberate that it makes your heart stir before your eyes even open.

Cloud is awake. You can feel it in the way his breathing isn’t quite as deep as it would be if he were still sleeping, in the way his body remains still except for that slow, methodical movement of his thumb.

When you finally manage to blink your eyes open, the room is bathed in soft gold. The early morning sunlight spills through the thin curtains, painting everything in a warm glow—his skin, his tousled blond hair, the faint shadows under his blue eyes that never seem to fully disappear. But they don’t look weary right now.

He’s watching you.

Not in the way most people would—there’s no expectation, no awkwardness. Just quiet observation, like he’s committing every detail to memory. There’s something in his gaze, something so rare and unguarded that it makes your chest tighten.

“…Morning,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

Cloud doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he exhales softly through his nose, then leans in. His nose brushes against your temple, a featherlight touch before his lips follow, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your skin. He lingers for a second before whispering, voice hushed and edged with sleep,

“Stay a little longer.”

It’s not a request he makes often. Cloud has always been the type to slip away early, to move before he can let himself settle, but not today.