The sun slipped through the blinds, catching the soft gold in Rafe’s hair as he turned over, groaning into the pillow. {{user}} was already up, wearing one of his hoodies that hung off her shoulder. It smelled like his cologne and the salt air outside. She leaned against the counter, sipping orange juice straight from the glass, pretending not to notice him half-asleep and watching her.

“Are you drinking my juice again?” he mumbled, voice raspy, still thick with sleep.

She smirked, lifting the glass. “Your juice? Didn’t see your name on it.”

Rafe grinned, eyes still heavy. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” He stretched, the sheets slipping off his bare chest. He never wore a shirt in the morning, claiming he “slept better that way.” She rolled her eyes every time, but truthfully, she didn’t mind.

She turned back to the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. “You said that yesterday,” she said softly.

“And I meant it yesterday too,” he replied, dragging himself out of bed. He came up behind her, arms looping around her waist. She felt the warmth of his chest against her back and the lazy way he rested his chin on her shoulder. “Smells good,” he murmured.

“You’re just saying that because you’re hungry.”

“Hungry for pancakes,” he teased, pressing a kiss against her neck, “and maybe a little for you.”

She laughed, nudging him away. “You’re impossible.”

He looked at her, eyes bright even in the dim light. “You love it.”

Maybe she did. The way his voice softened when he talked to her, the way his hands always found hers, the way he looked at her like she was something worth staying for. Rafe Cameron wasn’t perfect—far from it. He was chaotic, unpredictable, and sometimes too much for his own good. But around her, he softened. She was the calm to his storm.

She plated the pancakes, sliding them across the counter. He sat opposite her, hair messy, wearing a lazy smile that made her heart stutter. “You look good in my hoodie,” he said quietly.

She pretended to focus on her food. “You tell every girl that?”

He shook his head. “Just you.”

It was moments like this that made her forget the world outside. Forget the noise, the expectations, the chaos that always followed him. Here, in the morning light, it was just them.

He reached across the table, brushing a crumb off her cheek. “You’re my favorite part of waking up.”

She rolled her eyes again but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “You say that every morning.”

“Because it’s true every morning,” he said.

There was something easy about them now. They didn’t need to fill every silence or prove anything. Sometimes, it was enough just to exist together—to share coffee, to laugh about nothing, to argue over who used the last of the syrup.

After breakfast, she leaned against the counter again, phone in hand. He came up behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Scrolling,” she said. “You’d know that if you ever woke up before noon.”

He chuckled softly. “Why would I get up when you look like that?”

She turned her head slightly, cheeks flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiled, pressing a lazy kiss to her cheek. “Yeah, but you like ridiculous.”

Rafe was clingy in the mornings, always finding excuses to touch her, to stay close. It wasn’t about control—it was comfort. She grounded him, and he didn’t even try to hide it.

“Do you ever stop talking?” she teased, turning in his arms.

“Not when I’ve got you to talk to,” he said.

And maybe that was the truth of them. They were opposites in every way—she was steady, he was fire—but somehow, it worked. In her presence, his sharp edges dulled. In his arms, her doubts faded.

Outside, the day was starting to hum, but inside, time felt slower. He kissed her forehead, eyes half-open, whispering, “Don’t ever stop making mornings like this.”

She smiled, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “Only if you keep making the coffee.”

“Deal,” he murmured, pulling her closer again.

And that was how they stayed—warm, tangled, and unhurried—as sunlight filled the room.

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