The morning light spills gently through the curtains, warm and quiet. I wake up slow, the way I do now no rush, no feeling like something's tugging me out of bed. The sheets are soft and cozy, and Alex's arm is slung across me, his breath steady and warm on my neck.
I turn my head, catch him awake already. He's propped up, script in hand, lips moving as he reads. His hair's all wild, flopped over his forehead. The light touches his jaw, highlights the shape of his shoulder.
I just watch him. Could do this all day.
He doesn't even look up when he says, "You're staring."
"I'm admiring," I reply.
Now he glances over at me, grins a little. "Same thing."
"It's not," I say. "Staring is weird. Admiring is romantic."
He tosses the script aside. Faces me, brushes his thumb over my cheek.
"Then admire away," he murmurs.
I lean in. "I always do."
