The sea was already awake when Donnie stepped out onto the deck, coffee mug warm in his hands. Morning light spilled across the beach house in honeyed sheets, turning the waves into rolling glass. Three years married, he thought, smiling to himself. Three years, and it still felt unreal sometimes. Inside, Mateo was laughing—low and soft—while trying to convince {{user}} to get out of bed.

“Just five more minutes,” {{user}} murmured, voice thick with sleep. Mateo leaned over him, dark hair falling forward. “You said that ten minutes ago. Donnie’s already up. If you don’t move, I’m telling him you’re stealing all the blankets again.”

“That’s a lie,” {{user}} protested, though he laughed as Mateo kissed the corner of his mouth.

Donnie watched from the doorway, affection swelling in his chest. Mateo was all warmth and motion, a man who filled rooms without trying. {{user}} was steadier, thoughtful, grounding them both when the tides—emotional or literal—got rough. Donnie liked to think of himself as the space between them, the quiet current that kept them moving together. “Morning,” Donnie said.

Mateo turned, eyes bright. “There you are. Tell him to get up.”

Donnie crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “If you stay here too long, you’ll miss the dolphins,” he said to {{user}}