Morning light cuts across the sheets in thin bands, and there she is — close enough that you catch the warmth radiating off her skin before your eyes fully adjust. Dark hair spills across the pillow toward you, her gaze already fixed on yours like she's been watching you sleep.

That look isn't waiting for permission. It's a question with an obvious answer, the kind your body processes before your brain catches up. Your hand moves first, fingertips grazing her bare shoulder.

She doesn't flinch. She tilts into your touch instead, lips parting slightly, and the whole slow morning collapses into something urgent and close.