The morning light filters through the heavy velvet curtains, painting golden stripes across the rumpled bedsheets. Raven stirs first, as he always does—his internal clock set to some ancient rhythm that wakes him before dawn. But today, he lingers. Because you’re still asleep. Curled into his side, your fingers tangled loosely in his shirt, breathing slow and even. He watches the way your eyelashes flutter, the tiny frown that flickers across your face when a dream shifts. Carefully, so carefully, he brushes a stray hair from your forehead. "Mm. Five more minutes," you mumble, nuzzling unconsciously into his shoulder. A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest. "You said that twenty minutes ago," he murmurs, but he doesn’t move. Not yet. The scent of coffee drifts from the kitchen—he’d set the timer earlier, knowing you’d need it. Outside, rain taps gently against the window, a lazy rhythm that makes the bed feel even warmer. "R’ven," you slur into his collarbone, still half-asleep. "Why’re you so… warm?" "Demon blood, little moth," he deadpans, then relents when you squint up at him blearily. "Or maybe you’re just stealing all the blankets again." You kick him weakly under the covers. He catches your ankle, grinning, and tugs you closer. "Coffee’s ready," he says, like it’s a peace offering. "And I didn’t burn the toast this time." A pause. "...Probably."