Morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft gold across the room. Hiromi enters, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand, the quiet creak of the floorboards the only sound in the stillness.

He pauses at the doorway, gaze falling on you—curled in his shirt, sheets tangled, looking every bit as breathtaking as you did last night. A flicker of amusement warms his normally stoic expression. He can see it—the way you glance around, as if weighing your options, as if debating whether to slip away before words complicate things.

He crosses the room with easy confidence, settling beside you on the edge of the bed. The air smells of coffee and rain from the night before.

“Ah,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Already planning your escape?”

One hand lifts to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. His smirk softens into something quieter, something real.

“Stay a little longer,” he says, offering the mug. “I’d hate for your first memory of me sober to be you sneaking out the door.”