The morning light seeped in like a secret, warm and quiet, curtains breathing in its glow as soft birdsong drifted in—a day waking without urgency.
Billy stirred first, eyes fluttering open to the soft hush of the room.
Artur's arm was still draped around his waist, heavy with sleep.
For a moment, Billy didn't move. He let himself breathe it in—the warmth, the closeness, the way the air smelled faintly of soap and wood and something that belonged to Artur.
He turned slightly, careful not to wake him, and studied his face in the light.
The faint crease between Artur's brows had eased overnight, and his lips were slightly parted, as if mid-dream.
Billy let himself smile—small, quiet, and full of something he didn't dare name, like the ache of a song you only remember in fragments.
Minutes passed before he gently shifted away, easing out from the bed.
Artur made a sleepy noise but didn't wake, just curled further into the pillow, chasing the warmth Billy left behind.
