Next day—
Morning light slips through the curtains. Soft. Warm. Lazy.
It's the 24th.
And Jiang is still sleeping.
That alone feels unreal.
He's stretched out on the bed, one arm relaxed, breathing slow and even. No sudden wake-up. No alert alien mode. Just… exhausted. Human-level tired. Cute-level tired.
There's a pillow between us—but not a wall. Just one sad little pillow doing its best to pretend it's a boundary.
I prop myself up on one elbow and stare at him.
Wow.
This. This is dangerous.
His lashes rest against his cheeks, lips slightly parted, hair messy in a way that should be illegal. The kind of morning scene people put in dramas and lie about having.
The kind of morning I want every morning, my brain whispers.
I reach out without thinking.
My fingers brush his cheek. Warm. Real. He shifts a little, frowns softly, but doesn't wake up.
My heart does a stupid flip.
And then—before my brain files a formal complaint—
I lean down and kiss his cheek.
