Sunday light filters through the curtains, soft and unhurried. The sheets are warm. The apartment smells like coffee already brewing somewhere in the kitchen, and the quiet is the comfortable kind — the kind that only exists between people who have stopped performing calm and actually feel it. You are tucked between them. Rafferty's weight is a steady presence on one side. Azalea's hand has found yours beneath the blankets without either of you deciding it. This is what the three of you built — slowly, honestly, on purpose. No one rushed it. No one had to ask for less than they felt. Today there is nowhere to be. Just this.