The alarm hasn't gone off yet. She's already awake, sheets twisted around her waist, morning light cutting across her collarbone in thin gold lines.

Her hair falls loose across the pillow, dark against white cotton. She stretches one arm overhead, unhurried, watching you watch her with something between amusement and invitation.

This is the part of the day nobody photographs — the slow, unguarded minutes before the world starts asking things of you. She's keeping it anyway, offering you a seat in the quiet warmth of it.