They didn't rush out of bed.
There was no scramble for clothing. No awkward clearing of throats.
Just a quiet understanding that morning had arrived — and neither of them was retreating from it.
Camille sat up first, pushing the sheet aside. Her cornrows were slightly flattened from sleep, neat lines tracing back from her forehead, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.
Gabriel watched her without pretending otherwise.
She stood, unselfconscious in her own space, and crossed to the wardrobe. He followed a moment later, stepping into his trousers but leaving his chest bare.
The air outside the duvet felt cooler.
Real.
"I'll make coffee," she said, adjusting the edge of her braids in the hallway mirror before walking into the kitchen.
He was already awake, already alert — just slower now. Softer.
He leaned against the doorway as she moved around her small kitchen barefoot, entirely at home.
No hesitation. No performance.
She reached for her French press.
"You don't own a machine?" he asked lightly.
She didn't turn. "I don't outsource comfort."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
He stepped inside. The counter was narrow — designed for one person. When he instinctively shifted a jar slightly to create space, her hand wrapped around his wrist.
"Don't optimise my kitchen."
"It's inefficient."
"It's mine."
That stopped him.
Not the words — the certainty behind them.
He withdrew his hand slowly. "Understood."
She poured the water over the grounds, patient, deliberate. Steam curled upward, brushing against the clean lines of her braids.
He moved closer without thinking.
Her bare foot brushed his.
Neither stepped away.
He noticed how the braids exposed her shoulders completely. No curtain of hair to hide behind. When he reached out, his fingers traced the base of her neck — slow, testing.
She stilled.
Not resisting.
"Careful," she murmured.
"Of what?"
"Getting used to this."
His thumb slid along the warm line of her skin.
"I don't mind adaptation."
She handed him a mug before he could say more.
Their fingers touched.
He took a sip.
Strong. Uncompromising.
Like her.
"You don't dilute anything, do you?" he said.
She met his eyes evenly. "No."
His phone vibrated faintly from the living room.
He ignored it.
Instead, he stepped behind her, close enough that his chest brushed her back. With her braids pulled away, there was nothing between his mouth and her skin.
He pressed a slow kiss to the nape of her neck.
Her breath deepened.
The city stirred outside.
Inside, there was only coffee, bare feet, and the quiet beginning of something neither of them wanted to rush.