Pale morning light cuts across the room and lands exactly where it should — the slow curve of a raised hip, skin still warm from sleep, sheets twisted just below the waist.

You reach out before you're fully awake. Your hand finds the soft weight of her, fingers pressing into flesh that gives and holds at the same time. She doesn't move. She's waiting.

This is yours before coffee, before words, before the day takes anything from you. Round, unhurried, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. You take your time.