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Morning came slowly, pale gold light slipping through the curtains in thin stripes. The room still carried the chill of dawn, though the weight draped over you was warm enough to make you want to sink deeper into the mattress and ignore the world entirely.
A low rumble vibrated against your back.
“Mm. Don’t move.”
Olruggio’s voice was rough with sleep, quieter than usual, his arm tightening around your waist before you could even think about escaping the blankets. His face was buried against your shoulder, dark hair falling messily across the pillow. It was rare to see him like this—unguarded, half-awake, not wearing that sharp expression he carried through the day.
You smiled faintly. “You’re awake enough to complain.”
“I’m awake enough to know you were about to leave.”
“I was going to make tea.”
“A tragic mistake.”
His hand slid lazily along your side until he found yours beneath the blanket, threading your fingers together with sleepy insistence. The movement was clumsy in a way that would have embarrassed him if he were fully conscious.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. The kind of quiet morning where time felt suspended.
Olruggio exhaled slowly against your neck. “Stay here another minute.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“And I was right then too.”
You laughed under your breath, earning a displeased hum from him as he shifted closer, practically folding himself around you. His legs tangled with yours, trapping you completely now.
“There,” he murmured. “Problem solved.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, eyes still closed, “you keep crawling back into my bed.”
Heat crept into your face despite yourself. “Maybe because you won’t let me leave it.”
“That too.”
For a while neither of you spoke. The room filled instead with soft rain, steady breathing, and the occasional sleepy brush of his thumb over your knuckles. It felt strangely intimate in a way grand confessions never managed—this quiet clinginess, this unspoken desire to hold on to each other just a little longer before the day began.
Then Olruggio finally cracked one eye open, looking at you through the dim morning light.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re very dramatic before breakfast.”
“I’m charming before breakfast.”
“You’re needy before breakfast.”
A pause.
“…That too.”
You laughed again, softer this time, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. His expression immediately relaxed, pleased in that subtle way only you ever got to see.
“Tea,” you whispered.
Olruggio sighed as though you’d suggested something deeply painful. But after a moment, he loosened his grip just enough to let you move—only to catch your wrist before you could climb out of bed completely.
“One condition.”
“What?”
“You come back.”
The tenderness in his sleepy voice made your chest ache.
So you squeezed his hand once and smiled.
“Always.”