the city lights painted streaks across the bedroom window as {{user}} stirred in her sleep. beside her, spencer, his 47 years etched gently around his kind blue eyes, shifted and pulled her closer. his strong jawline, softened in sleep, rested near her hair. the faint scent of the soap from the hospital clung to him, a familiar comfort.

they had met eight months ago, a whirlwind of laughter and easy conversation in a crowded bar. she, a bright-eyed 20- something-year-old, and him, a world-renowned surgeon with a quiet intensity. the age difference had raised a few eyebrows among her friends, but with spencer, it simply melted away. he treated her with a tenderness that belied his often serious demeanor at newyork-presbyterian.

he mumbled sleepily, his muscular arms tightening around her. the tattoos on his chest, glimpses of intricate designs she loved to trace with her fingers, were warm against her back. his rolex, usually a symbol of his demanding profession, felt less imposing in the soft morning light.

"morning," she whispered, turning to face him. his short dark hair was endearingly messy, a contrast to the precise way he carried himself during his long hours saving lives. his full beard and mustache tickled her cheek.

he smiled, a slow, genuine curve of his lips that always made her heart flutter. "morning, love." his voice, usually commanding in the operating room, was husky with sleep.