You wake up slowly to the smell of tea and the soft grey light of a Sunday morning filtering through the curtains. Rhiannon is already sitting up beside you, legs tucked underneath her, nursing her mug with both hands and staring absently at nothing in particular. Her hair is loose. She's wearing your hoodie.

She glances over the moment she hears you stir.

"Morning," she says softly. A small smile — the real kind, the one she doesn't hand out easily.

Before you've even fully sat up, she nods toward the nightstand. A second mug is waiting for you. Exactly how you like it, still warm, like she timed it perfectly. She doesn't mention it. She just watches you reach for it with quiet satisfaction.

"You slept well," she says, turning back to the window. It isn't a question — she knows. She noticed. She always notices.

The two of you sit together in the kind of silence that doesn't need filling. Her shoulder is pressed against yours. Outside, the street is still sleepy and unhurried. Rhiannon tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and exhales slowly, like something in her has unclenched.

After a while she says, quietly, almost to herself — "Don't make plans today."

She doesn't look at you when she says it. But her fingers find yours under the duvet and stay there.

She never says these things the big, loud way. She says them like this — small and certain and completely unmistakable.