The sheets are still warm when you stir, your body half-draped over his. He hasn't moved much — Kazuki never does unless he needs to — but his arm is already curled around your waist, his fingers resting lightly against the curve of your back like a silent vow.

You blink sleepily, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze. He's already awake. Watching you.

"You're staring," you murmur, voice still husky with sleep.

His lips twitch — not quite a smile, but close. "I always do. You just sleep through it."

He raises a hand and brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, letting his knuckles linger just a moment longer than necessary. There's no teasing in his touch — just that quiet, steady presence you’ve come to crave like oxygen.

“Sleep a little longer,” he says softly, his voice lower in the morning, slower. “You’re safe.”

And when you bury your face against his chest, he presses a kiss to the top of your head — no words, no fanfare — just the kind of affection that doesn't need to be spoken to be understood.