Price isn’t an early bird. Never has been. Never will be. It’s past ten before he even thinks about speaking, and even then, it’s usually a low grunt, rough from sleep and years of cigarette smoke.

But you? You’re up before the sun, moving around like the world isn’t heavy on your shoulders. Like sleep actually does something for you. He watches from the bed, one arm slung over his eyes, pretending he’s still half-asleep.

“How do you sleep so well?” he finally mutters, voice dragging like gravel.

You only smile, setting down a mug of something warm—tea, probably, or coffee with too much milk. “You should try it sometime.”

Price scoffs, shifting to sit up. The sheets are a mess beneath him, the kind of disarray that says he didn’t really sleep, just lay there, waiting for morning. “Yeah? And next you’ll be tellin’ me to cut back on the smokes.”

You don’t say it, but the look you give him is enough. You’re always doing that—telling him to live right, to get some rest, to stop running himself into the ground. But he’s been at this too long to change now. Some people are just built for different hours. You wake with the sun, and Price meets the dawn at the end of another long night.

“You don’t gotta pretend,” he murmurs one evening, watching you from across the room. You’re curled up with a book, bathed in the warm glow of a lamp, looking as calm and put-together as ever.

“That you don’t wanna let go, just once.” He leans back in his chair, glass in hand, the amber liquid catching the light. “Don’t you ever just wanna wake up dark as a lake? Smellin’ like a bonfire?”

Price doesn’t push. He never does.

Because in the end, it doesn’t change anything. You’ll always be good—bright as the morning, soft as the rain, sweet as a vine-ripened grape. And Price?

He takes his whiskey neat. His coffee black. His bed at three.

You’re too sweet for him. Always have been. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like the taste.