The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. The air was still thick with warmth from the night before, the remnants of shared heat lingering between the sheets. As you stirred, the slow, steady rise and fall of Sting’s breathing beside you pulled you further into wakefulness.

Your eyes fluttered open just as his did, his signature smirk already forming before he’d even fully registered you were awake. His blond hair was tousled, sticking up in places from sleep, and his bare chest rose and fell with a lazy ease. His arm was still draped over you, his body comfortably close, as if neither of you had quite found the will to part just yet.

“Morning,” Sting murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep. His fingers traced slow, idle patterns against your skin, his touch light but deliberate.

You hummed in response, your body still relaxed from the night before. His warmth, his scent—something crisp yet undeniably him—wrapped around you, grounding you in the moment.

“Didn’t think we’d wake up at the same time,” he mused, tilting his head slightly, his blue eyes half-lidded as he studied you. “Guess we’re more in sync than I thought.”

The teasing in his tone was familiar, but there was something softer beneath it, something unspoken in the way his fingers lingered against your skin. He didn’t move to pull away, and neither did you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside was waking up, but here, in the quiet cocoon of tangled sheets and shared warmth, time seemed to stretch. Sting’s smirk softened into something more genuine, and he let out a low chuckle.

“Could get used to this,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You met his gaze, the weight of his words settling between you. And as the morning sun bathed you both in its light, you found yourself thinking the same thing.