The morning light spills through the curtains in soft, golden streams, painting the room in shades of honey and warmth. Dust motes drift lazily in the illuminated air, suspended like tiny stars caught between sleep and waking.
The world outside is still waking up—distant traffic, the occasional bird, the hum of a city stretching after a long night.
I shift slowly, my body heavy and content in that way that only comes after a night of being completely, thoroughly loved. My face presses against something impossibly soft—warm skin, a steady heartbeat, the faint scent of red rose that clings to everything he touches.
A small, sleepy sound escapes my lips as I surface from the depths of sleep, my limbs tangled with his beneath the rumpled sheets.
There's a familiar ache, low and deep, but I've grown used to it now. It's not pain anymore—it's something else.
