𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 36 -

The soft morning light filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room.

Urgh I wanna sleep more.

My eyes flutter open, and I groan, squirming on the sheets, wanting to return to bed, but I stop when my eye catches something.

And never wake up.

Val lies next to me, shirtless, the blanket barely covering his waist. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm; his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before. His face looks adorable and peaceful, with his eyes closed and those lashes fawning over his cheeks. He seems like a small, innocent boy. Except he's anything but that.

I sit straight on the bed, glance out my balcony and see a few small birds sitting on the railing, like always. Like every morning. They come, sit, make fucking noise, wake me up and leave like nothing happened.

I bite my lip, looking back at Val again, suddenly feeling warmer. My fingers twitch with the urge to trace the lines of his tattoos, to map the stories etched into his skin. I shake the thought away and press my lips together, forcing myself to look away.

Fuck no. Stop it, Zara.

Carefully, I peel the blanket back and slip out of bed, moving as quietly. My bare feet sink into the plush carpet as I tiptoe to the bathroom, glancing back once to make sure he's still asleep.

After freshening up, I make my way to the kitchen. The quiet hum of the refrigerator greets me as I open a cabinet and pull out my favourite mug. My movements feel automatic—coffee, water, filter—while my mind races.

Why is he here?

What is wrong with me?

I set the mug down and started rummaging through the fridge for eggs and bread.

Scrambled eggs and toast it is—simple and quick. I crack a couple of eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a pinch of salt and pepper. The sizzling sound of butter melting in the pan feels oddly comforting, almost domestic.

The kitchen is filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread as I sway to the beat of "Meddle About" by Chase Atlantic, the music blaring from the speaker on the counter. I'm wearing my favourite oversized hoodie, my hair tied up in a messy bun, and socks sliding across the floor as I groove to the rhythm.

I sway my hips as I butter the toast, singing along to the lyrics like I'm performing for an audience of thousands instead of a very empty kitchen.

Reaching for the coffee pot, I pour two cups—black for him, just the way he likes it, and one for myself with too much cream and sugar. I bite into a piece of toast as I hum, tossing a glance at the eggs frying on the stove.

Just as the song transitions to the next verse, I spin around to grab another plate—and nearly drop the plate as I let out a scream.

He's there, leaning casually against the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression. His hair is tousled from sleep, and he's still shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips.