I swear to Jesus, Mary and Joseph— She’s trying to kill me. Like actually. Full-blown assassination attempt via cuteness.

No warning. No lead-up. Just waltzes into the kitchen in two fucking braids, with her oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and those too-big-for-her-face specs perched on her nose.

And then she yawns. Like a baby deer or some shite. Fist to her eye. Eyes squinting all sleep-dazed and confused. Skin still flushed from bed. She’s blinking at me like I’m not about to throw my whole six-foot-five self through the nearest window.

And then—then she sniffs. Like this tiny, pathetic post-yawn sniff.

I freeze halfway through pouring milk into my cereal. “C’mere,” I strangle, voice already wrecked.

She just stands there, blinking all doe-eyed.

“No,” I say again, firmer this time, because what the fuck is this? “You’re not allowed walk around the house lookin’ like that. I’m not well, {{user}}.”

She frowns and it’s somehow worse. “Like what?”

Like you just murdered me with a yawn, woman.

“Like that,” I choke out, already storming over to her. “Like…with your little face all glowy from the radiator and your glasses fogged up and—fuck’s sake—are those my socks?”

She glances down. Wiggles her toes. “Yeah.”

Right. Done. Over. I’ve expired.

I grab her. Just proper scoop her off the ground like she’s made of cotton balls and I’m the world’s most lovesick forklift. She squeals, but I’ve already got my face buried in her neck like a man who’s been starved for years.

“Johnny—Jesus!” she wheezes, laughing, clinging onto my hoodie like she thinks I might drop her. Which, rude. I’d sooner dislocate my shoulder than let her hit the ground.

I’m obsessed. Like criminally. Like I’m going to end up in some psych ward muttering about freckles and fuzzy socks and how her lips taste sweeter in the morning.

“You’re not allowed to be this cute,” I mumble into her skin, hoisting her higher so her legs wrap round my waist. “It’s an actual hazard.”

She giggles and I think my soul departs my body. Like up and floats away.

“Johnny,” she laughs, trying to wriggle, but I’m not letting go. Not even close.

“You—” I groan against her neck, mouth already finding that warm bit of skin near her jaw. “You look like a sleepy little hedgehog. Why would you do that to me? Huh? You tryin’ to kill me, a stór?”

She’s still laughing, breathless now. Wrapping her legs around my waist like it’s instinct.

“I was yawning.”

“You were adorable,” I mutter, kissing her cheek, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth. “Like. Criminal levels. Unfair. Like I actually might call the guards. You need to be locked up. You’ve got sleepy-face and bed braids and—Jesus Christ, don’t look at me like that—”

She blinks. All soft. Round-eyed.

“That. That’s what I’m talking about!” I pull her closer, fingers dragging up under the hoodie to find the warm skin of her back. “I’m never letting go. You’re mine now. I’ve claimed you. Like the British with the whole fuckin’ world.”

“We already live together. We’re twenty-two, Johnathan.” {{user}} argues as if logic has any place in my mind right now.

“No. Shut up. I’m having a moment.” I kiss her cheeks. Hard. Like maybe if I do it enough I’ll figure out how the fuck she’s real.

“I should arrest you,” I murmur, forehead pressed to hers. “For what?” she whispers.

“Being ridiculously fuckin’ precious in my kitchen first thing in the mornin’. That’s a crime. That’s actual manslaughter. I’m a victim. I’m suing.”