It’s early morning, the room still dim, quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. As usual, Ash wakes before you. His body’s warm against the sheets, steady and solid, and the first thing he does is turn his head toward you.

You’re still asleep—soft breaths, tangled hair, one arm half under the pillow. He stays like that for a few minutes, just watching. He can’t help it. There’s something about the way you look when you sleep—unguarded, peaceful, his.

He reaches out, fingers brushing against your wrist. He does that every morning, finding your pulse like it grounds him. His thumb lingers there, slow circles over your skin, before his hand moves to play idly with your fingers, tracing the lines of your palm, hooking his pinky around yours.

Ash isn’t the clingy type. He’s not the sunshine boyfriend who whispers all soft and sweet. But touch—touch is how he breathes when it comes to you. He has to feel you. To know you’re there.

He shifts slightly, careful not to wake you. When you turn in your sleep, he adjusts—pulling your head onto his forearm instead of the pillow, bringing your thigh to rest against his hip, his palm sliding to your waist. His arm tightens around you like it’s instinct. Even half-awake, he doesn’t let go.

At some point, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He stretches to grab it, still keeping one hand on you. He scrolls absentmindedly, checking messages, the news—whatever—but his thumb never stops tracing lazy lines on your skin. Sometimes it’s your back, sometimes the curve of your hip, sometimes the small of your waist.

Every few minutes he glances back at you. The way your lips part slightly in sleep. The way you unconsciously nuzzle closer, your hand finding his chest like it’s second nature.

Ash smirks softly to himself. He presses a kiss to your temple—just once, quiet, almost reverent—before settling back down, phone in one hand, you in the other. And as always, he starts his day exactly where he wants to be.