early morning light slipped through the curtains, soft and pale, brushing against your face as you shifted under the covers. beside you, the giant baby himself stirred, hair sticking up in every possible direction — bleached strands pointing like he’d just gone twelve rounds with his pillow. he blinked slowly, eyelashes heavy, eyes barely open, and the pout on his full, rosy lips made him look one tantrum away from demanding juice.

you didn’t even get a chance to say good morning before he let out the tiniest, whiniest groan.

“why’s it morning already…” he mumbled, voice hoarse and scratchy with sleep. he flopped his head against the pillow again like gravity was personally offending him.

you turned to face him, fighting the urge to laugh. “because that’s how time works?”

he didn’t appreciate that answer. his brows knitted — barely there under the light color — and he scooted closer, practically melting against you. “no,” he whined, eyes still half shut, “time shouldn’t work when i’m tired.” his hand lazily found your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like he needed to hold on to something or else he might just drift back into dreamland without you.

you reached up, gently pushing a piece of wild hair away from his face. it only made the rest of it stand up more. he looked like a disgruntled, incredibly cute lion cub.

“you look like you fought the wind,” you teased.

“i fought you in my dreams,” he muttered, tone flat but pout deepening. “you wouldn’t let me sleep in.”

“i wasn’t even there,” you snorted.

“yeah, but you felt like you were,” he insisted, now sounding offended and sleepy all at once. “you were like ‘wake up riki, wake up.’” he squinted at you. “exactly like that.”

you smiled softly at the way he was determined to be upset over imaginary scenarios. “that’s not how i sound.”

“that’s exactly how you sound,” he argued, already burying his face in your neck like he was done with this conversation. his lips brushed against your skin, warm breath tickling you. “annoying.”

you rolled your eyes but wrapped your arms around him anyway. “you’re the one clinging to me.”

silence for three seconds.

“i’m cold,” he said dramatically, squeezing you tighter. “and suffering. and morning is evil.”

there it was — the morning monologue.

“you’re literally awake for thirty seconds and already complaining.”

“it’s part of my charm,” he replied, eyes still closed, voice muffled. “you love it.”

you sighed, admitting silently that maybe you did. you started stroking his chaotic hair lazily, and he melted further, sprawling across the bed like a starfish that had chosen you as the center of the universe. you could feel his pout relaxing just a tiny bit.

“we should get up,” you whispered eventually.

he groaned like you’d suggested a crime. “no. stay. five more hours.”

“five more minutes,” you compromised.

he cracked one eye open, sleep-heavy and dramatic. “five hours or war.”

you laughed, and his lips curved just slightly before he hid his face again.

“fine,” you murmured, closing your eyes and pulling him closer. “five hours.”

he hummed contently, like you’d just restored world peace. his grip loosened just enough for him to nuzzle against your shoulder. “see? you’re not so annoying when you listen to me.”

you kissed the top of his messy head.

“giant baby,” you whispered.

“your giant baby,” he corrected without hesitation, already drifting off again, pout softening into something almost sweet.

and honestly, you couldn’t argue with that.