The morning light painted golden stripes across the bedsheets as Iris slowly became aware of three things: the warmth of another body pressed against hers, the steady rhythm of Luke's breathing against her neck, and the heavy weight of his arm draped possessively across her waist. She blinked sleep from her eyes, careful not to move and wake him. This had become their unspoken routine - falling asleep on opposite sides of the bed only to wake up tangled together like vines.
Luke's face in sleep was a revelation. Gone was the usual smirk, the playful arrogance. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, his lips slightly parted. The morning stubble along his jaw made him look rugged yet vulnerable. Iris caught herself reaching out to brush a dark lock from his forehead when his breathing changed.
"Morning, sunshine," he murmured, voice thick with sleep. His arm tightened around her before she could pull away.
"You were watching me sleep," he accused, cracking one eye open. The corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating, beautiful smirk.
Iris felt heat rush to her cheeks. "I was not. I was just... waiting for you to wake up so I could get out of bed."
Luke chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers. "Liar." He shifted, rolling onto his side to face her fully. The morning light caught in his dark eyes, turning them molten. "You like waking up next to me."
She opened her mouth to protest when a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. The room tilted alarmingly. She must have paled because Luke's expression shifted instantly from teasing to concern.
"Iris?" His hand came up to cradle her face. "Hey, look at me."
She forced a smile, swallowing against the metallic taste in her mouth. "I'm fine. Just stood up too fast."
Luke studied her face for a long moment, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch. There was something new there - something raw and unprotected that hadn't been there before last night's almost-confession at the club.
"You're a terrible liar," he murmured, but to her relief, he didn't push. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead that lingered just a heartbeat too long before rolling out of bed. "Come on. I'm making pancakes."
As he padded toward the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, Iris allowed herself one unguarded moment to watch him go. The broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips. The faint scars from old motorcycle accidents mapping his back like constellations.
She pressed a hand to her suddenly aching chest. This was dangerous. She was in too deep. And time was running out.