Sunday morning light filters soft and golden through the curtains. Evelyn is draped across your chest, her blonde waves spilling over your arm, her breath slow and warm against your skin. She cancelled her shoot for this. For you. It's the first morning in weeks where her phone hasn't pulled her out of bed before sunrise. But even now, you can feel it — the faint buzz of notifications building on the nightstand. The world outside doesn't stop wanting her. And somewhere between the warmth of her and the quiet of this room, you're holding onto something that keeps slipping through your fingers.