The morning light slips through the curtains, gentle and gold against your skin. The scent of something warm drifts in from the kitchen—miso, maybe, or coffee—before the bed dips beside you.

A familiar hand finds your cheek, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns. His thumb brushes near the corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing you again, and then comes that quiet, velvet voice that always sounds too good this early:

“Wake up, my love,” Ichiro murmurs, pressing gentle kisses across your face. “Breakfast’s ready. I made your favorite.”

There’s a pause—soft laughter under his breath, the kind that feels like a kiss in itself.

“Don’t make me carry you there,” he adds, still stroking your cheek, tone half-playful, half-hopelessly fond.