DYLAN
The first thing I register is the soft weight of her against me. Hermione is curled into my chest, one leg draped over mine, her fingers resting just below my collarbone like she owns the place—and maybe she does. Not the penthouse. Me.
I stay still, breathing her in. Her hair smells like vanilla and sleeps. Her breath is warm against my neck. And for once, the silence doesn't feel suffocating—it feels full. Like her presence alone is enough to hush every noise in my head.
She shifts slightly, nose brushing my skin. "You're awake," she mumbles, voice raspy and thick with sleep.
"Couldn't help it," I whisper. "You snore."
Her head jerks up. "I do not."
I grin. "Like a kitten with asthma."
She smacks my chest but laughs, and that sound—I swear it unspools something tight inside me. I haven't laughed like this in a long time. Not in the mornings. Not in bed. Not without having to pretend.
She pushes herself up, sitting on her knees, wearing nothing but my shirt, half unbuttoned from last night. The hem falls around her thighs like a soft curtain and I have to look away just to breathe.
"I'm going to shower," she says with a teasing smile, catching the way I'm watching her.
"Need help?"
She lifts a brow. "Are you offering or just trying to get another look?"
"Both."
She leans down, kisses my jaw. "Maybe next time."
God help me.
I throw on some sweatpants and head to the kitchen while she showers. Coffee brews. I toss some pancakes on the stove. She's turned me her goddamn personal chef . But I like it. I like waking up and making breakfast for someone who actually matters.
She walks out barefoot, her legs still damp from the shower, wearing one of my other shirts, now with a pair of my boxers too. And I lose my grip on the spatula.
"You okay there, chef?" she teases.
"Completely fine," I told her.
We eat on the couch again. No movie this time, just music playing softly in the background—"Where You Are" by Keenan Te—and the way she sways her shoulders to the beat. After breakfast, she stands and picks up the remote control, changes the music to what I believe is a Nigerian AfroBeats pop, I Know she was born in Nigeria before she was adopted here and she has been saying she wants to find out more about her root and actually visit Nigeria More what I haven't told her is that one of my friend is also Nigerian. She moves to me and pulls me up with her.
"Dance with me," she says.
"There's no one else here."
"Exactly."
She rests her head on my chest and we move slowly. No rhythm, no plan. Just us. I hold her like she's something fragile and irreplaceable. Because she is.
Later, we sit by the floor-to-ceiling windows with our coffee mugs, watching the city stretch into the afternoon. She leans into me and asks quietly, "Were you always this lonely, Dylan?"
The question sinks deep.
I don't answer right away. Just set my mug down and thread my fingers through hers.
"This place used to echo," I tell her.
She turns to look at me, puzzled. "It's beautiful."
"It was empty."
She squeezes my hand.
"I didn't think silence could hurt until I started hearing yours," I admit.
She leans in and kisses me—not out of passion, but understanding. Like she sees the hollow parts of me and isn't afraid to touch them.
The peace breaks around mid-afternoon when my phone buzzes. Adrian.
I hesitate. Hermione notices.
"You need to get that?"
"Probably."
She kisses my cheek. "It's okay. I'll start the dishes."
I watch her walk away, barefoot and warm and entirely too good for me.
Adrian's voice is brisk when I answer. "You're going to want to see the documents I sent over. Something's come up. It's about your father's holdings in Geneva."
Of course it is.
Just like that, Sunday starts slipping away.
But her laughter from the kitchen pulls me back—just a little.
And I realize something:
Even heaven would feel a little empty without her.