The sun filters through the blinds like it’s got nowhere better to be. You shift in bed. Benji’s side is empty, but his blanket is still warm.

Then you hear it, faint humming, and the soft clink of two mugs. You sit up just as he pads back into the room, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, headscarf on. He’s carrying your tea. His own mug is tucked in the crook of his elbow, like he’s done this a million times, and he has.

“Morning, love,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head before you can speak. “Sorry. Woke up early. Couldn’t sleep. Made the weak stuff for you.”

You take the mug, fingers brushing his. His hands are thinner than they used to be, skin paler, but still warm. Still steady.

He climbs back into bed beside you and sighs like it’s his favorite place in the world, because it is. “I was thinking,” he says after a while. “We should rewatch that dumb romcom with the dog. The one we hated. I feel like hating it again. With snacks this time.”