She catches you the moment your eyes open — copper hair spilled across the pillow, catching the pale window light like something deliberately lit for your benefit.

The sheet has migrated south overnight, and she hasn't bothered retrieving it. One arm stretches above her head, shoulder blade lifted, freckles mapping a trail you already know by touch.

Morning sits heavy and unhurried in the room. She's not performing sleep, not performing anything — just existing in that warm, unguarded hour before the day makes its demands, letting you look.