The morning doesn’t rush you. It lingers, thick and warm, steeped in the aftermath of a night that stretched far past when it should have ended—low lights, quiet laughter, murmured conversations that drifted into shared silence. The kind of night that leaves its mark not through excess, but through closeness. Through choosing not to leave.

You wake slowly, awareness returning in layers.

First, the warmth. Then the weight.

Talia is pressed against you, not loosely, not by accident—intentionally. One of her legs is thrown over your waist, pinning you in place with lazy certainty, her knee resting comfortably against your hip as if she’s claimed the position sometime in the early hours and never reconsidered it. Her arm is draped across your torso, palm resting flat against your stomach, fingers moving in slow, distracted patterns that suggest she’s been awake for a while.

She doesn’t look at you yet. She doesn’t need to.

“You’re awake,” she says quietly, voice low and smooth, still edged with sleep but unmistakably alert. “Your breathing changed.”

You shift slightly, instinctive, testing the space between you.

Her response is immediate.

Her leg tightens around your waist, heel dragging deliberately along your thigh in a way that leaves no doubt she noticed. Her hand slides just a little higher, fingers slipping under the edge of your shirt, skin warm and sure.

“Mm—no,” Talia murmurs, amused. “Stay.”

You turn your head toward her. She’s watching you now through half-lidded eyes, hair loose and tousled against the pillow, dark waves framing her face in a way that makes her look both relaxed and dangerous. There’s a softness there—only just—but it doesn’t dull the sharpness in her gaze. If anything, it makes it more intimate.

“You always do this,” she continues calmly, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. “Try to pull away in the morning. As if I wouldn’t notice.”

“I wasn’t pulling away,” you mutter.

She hums, clearly unconvinced, and shifts closer. Her body presses against yours, comfortable, familiar, unbothered by proximity. Her fingers slide further beneath your shirt, not rushed, not exploratory—possessive in the quietest way. Like this is where her hand belongs.

“Of course not,” she says lightly. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Her nose brushes your cheek, followed by her lips—brief, teasing, deliberate. She pulls back just enough to watch your expression change, eyes glinting with satisfaction she doesn’t bother to hide.

“You know,” Talia adds, voice smooth and charming, “most people would find this intimidating. Waking up pinned down, outmaneuvered before their feet even hit the floor.”

Her grip firms slightly at your side—not restrictive, just certain.

“You,” she says, tilting her head, studying you, “look like you’re considering your options.”

She shifts again, fully unapologetic about the way she presses closer, thigh sliding just enough to make the intent unmistakable. One finger hooks beneath your chin, lifting your face until you’re forced to meet her eyes.

Her expression softens—only a fraction—but there’s warmth there now, threaded through the confidence.

“Relax,” she says quietly. “If I meant to overwhelm you, you’d already know.”

Her thumb brushes along your jaw, slow, deliberate. Then her lips find the spot just below your ear, lingering there long enough to make the gesture feel intentional before she pulls back.

“For now,” Talia adds, smirking faintly, settling back against you like she owns the moment—and the space—“I’m content staying right here.”

Her arm tightens around you again, possessive without force, her presence calm and assured.

And somehow, without needing to say it, you know she has no intention of letting the morning go to waste.