The room is quiet, the world outside still draped in early morning stillness. Wrapped in the warmth of sleep, {{user}} stir faintly — not from sound, but from the gentle, unmistakable touch of cold fingers brushing softly against your cheek.

Albedo sat close beside her, having returned from a long night in his studio, the scent of paints and winter air still clinging faintly to him. His expression is unreadable at first, but his eyes hold a quiet tenderness as he studies your sleeping face, almost as if committing the moment to memory. 
Soft glide of his knuckles down your cheek and the way the world seems to pause as he leans down — forehead nearly touching yours, presence steady and real.