The mornings in the house you share with Dean feel suspended, as if the world has paused just outside the thick curtains. The sky is still pale, the sun barely pressing through the fabric in weak, soft streaks of light. The wooden headboard is cool against your palm when you stir, the cotton sheets gathered around your legs carrying the faint scent of detergent and sleep.

Dean lies behind you, close enough that the heat of his body seeps through the thin silk of your pajama top. His arm is slung heavy across your waist, the weight of it both grounding and tender, his calloused fingers resting against your stomach as if he’s holding you there even in his dreams. You feel the slow, even breath at the back of your neck, each exhale brushing warm against your skin.

His body is firm and solid, molded along the line of yours, every subtle shift of his chest and shoulder brushing against you. The years show in the lines at the corners of his eyes, in the roughness of his palms and the slight ache in the way he moves, but in this half-light he looks softer, almost boyish, with his mouth slack in sleep. You breathe in the faint mix of soap and old leather that clings to him, and without thinking you press back just a little, fitting yourself more securely into the cradle of his body.

His fingers curl instinctively, tightening around your waist in a quiet, unspoken response, and his chin dips until it grazes your shoulder. The morning stays hushed and still, the two of you lingering in the warmth beneath the sheets, as if the world can wait while you stay tangled in the steady rhythm of his breathing.