Anders Cain wasn’t the kind of man who did mornings. Or attachments. Or… whatever the hell this was.

He blinked awake to the soft gray light spilling through the blinds, his head pounding faintly — too much whiskey, too little sleep. The sheets were tangled around his waist, the air heavy with the scent of perfume and smoke.

It was supposed to be like every other night. Quick. Forgettable. No names, no numbers. Just the sharp edge of distraction in a world that didn’t offer much else.

He rolled over, expecting cold sheets.

But instead — there you were.

Still asleep.

The first thing that hit him wasn’t irritation. It was confusion. Then… something else he didn’t want to name. You were curled up on your side, hair mussed, one arm draped lazily over his pillow like you’d always belonged there.

Anders stared for a long time. Too long.

He told himself he was just making sure you weren’t faking it — that you hadn’t stayed behind to steal something. But that wasn’t it. You weren’t faking. You were peaceful. And in a world full of noise, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anything like that.

He exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face. This wasn’t how it went.

People didn’t stay. You weren’t supposed to stay.

And yet…

When you stirred a little, blinking sleepily before realizing where you were, Anders froze. The automatic stone face— the one he always wore to keep people from looking too close — didn’t come right away.

“Morning,” you murmured, voice still soft from sleep.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said gruffly.

You yawned. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

He almost said I don’t. Almost. But instead, he just watched as you sat up, sunlight catching your skin, and felt something he hadn’t in years — hesitation.

“…Want coffee?” you asked after a beat.

Anders swallowed, eyes flicking to the clock, then back to you. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “Yeah, alright.”

You smiled — small, real — before slipping out of bed. And for the first time in a long time, Anders didn’t reach for his gun, his bottle, or his walls.

He just sat there, watching the empty space you’d left behind — warm, soft, impossibly human — and thought, maybe he didn’t want you to leave after all.