The first light of morning filtered in through the thin curtains, casting soft golden patterns on the wooden floor. The apartment was still. The kind of stillness that only happened when the world hadn't quite woken up yet.
Nayla stirred before the alarm.
She blinked slowly, taking in the room not hers, but familiar now. Her jacket hung on the chair in the corner. Her mug was on the windowsill. A book she'd left half-read was sitting open on the coffee table.
Pieces of her.
Scattered around his space like breadcrumbs.
She turned to see Raka still asleep beside her, hair a little messy, arm draped over the pillow where she had been. He looked so different in sleep, less loud, more open. She liked watching him like this. It made her feel safe in a way she hadn't thought she'd ever want to feel again.
But she did.
She got up quietly, slipping into the hoodie he'd tossed over the chair, and padded into the kitchen. The floor was cold under her bare feet, but the smell of coffee grounded her.
She brewed two cups of his with extra sugar, hers plain. She placed the mugs carefully on the table and sat down at the window, pulling her legs up to her chest. Outside, the city was starting to stretch. People passed in joggers. Someone yelled for a dog.
Normal.
Alive.
She liked mornings now.
Not all of them. But this kind, the ones where she wasn't rushing to protect herself from the world. The ones where she had a moment to breathe before putting her armor back on.
Raka appeared a few minutes later, rubbing his eyes and yawning so wide it made her laugh quietly.
"You're awake," he said, voice low and sleepy.
"You're observant."
He grinned, walking over to her and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You made coffee?"
"I owed you," she said, sliding his cup toward him.
"For what?"
"For being the kind of person I wake up early for."
He looked at her, long and full. "You keep saying things that make me fall harder."
"Maybe I'm doing it on purpose," she said, sipping her coffee.
He sat across from her, watching the sunlight catch in her hair. "I never thought I'd have this."
"This?"
"Someone who stays."
She didn't reply at first. She just reached out and placed her hand over his.
"I'm not perfect," she said. "I might pull away again. I might get quiet. I might need space when you don't understand why."
"I know," he said gently. "And I'll still be here."
She smiled. "Then you've got me."
They stayed at the table for a while, sipping coffee in the soft hush of morning.
No declarations. There is no dramatic music.
Just hands held across chipped wood, warm mugs, and two people finally learning that love didn't need to be loud to be real.
Sometimes, it was found exactly here.
In the quiet morning.