The sun filtered in gently through the wide windows, casting faint golden lines across the kitchen floor. I stood at the counter, barefoot, Mark's sweatshirt hanging loosely around my frame. It still smelled like him—citrus, something smoky, something warm. The scent had become familiar, comforting, like the weight of his arm draped over me when we woke up tangled together just moments earlier.
We hadn't said anything. Not about last night. Not about this morning.
But we didn't need to.
There was no panic, no awkward scramble to create space. He'd stirred beside me, blinked awake slowly, and when our eyes met, he didn't pull away. He just looked at me—really looked—and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers had paused for the briefest second on my cheek, like he didn't want to let go.
Now, I was pouring his coffee, just like that.
