Good morning

You notice the glasses first — slightly askew, caught in that half-awake moment before the world demands anything of anyone.

You take in the warm skin against tangled sheets, the slow rise of a chest still breathing in sleep's rhythm, a body that makes morning feel like something worth staying in bed for.

You feel the pull of it — the unhurried heat, the invitation of heavy-lidded eyes finally finding yours, the particular electricity of desire before coffee, before clothes, before anything except wanting what's right in front of you.