I woke to warmth.
Not just the sun creeping through the edges of the curtains, but Chris's arm, slung heavy across my waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck. For a long, still moment, I didn't move. I let myself exist in that space between sleep and morning, between dreams and the soft rustling of trees outside our cabin window.
His hand stirred slightly, his thumb brushing over the hem of my shirt, a lazy, unconscious motion. I smiled into the pillow.
"Morning," he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," I whispered back.
Neither of us moved much, not at first. We stayed tangled in the quiet, legs looped under the covers, heads close. No alarms, no plans, no weight of the outside world.
Just us.
Eventually, I turned toward him, and he opened his eyes slowly, blinking like the light might be too much.
"You look good," I teased.
"Do I?"
