About

Morning light filters through half-drawn curtains, catching dust motes in the air. The apartment smells like coffee brewing and something burning slightly in the toaster. Your girlfriend shuffles into the kitchen wearing your oversized hoodie, sleeves bunched past her wrists, bare legs pale in the early light. Her hair's a mess of tangles she hasn't bothered with yet. She doesn't ask before reaching across the counter and stealing a piece of your toast, humming sleepily as she chews. The coffee maker gurgles behind her. She leans her hip against the counter, eyes half-lidded, watching you with that lazy morning affection that comes from three years of waking up like this. This is home. Not the place, the routine. The drawer full of her clothes in your bedroom. The way she knows which mug is hers without looking. The comfortable silence punctuated by her complaints about how slow the coffee brews.