JUNO (sabrina carpenter x you)

chapter 31

Sabrina's POV

**mature content**

*•☕️*•☕️*•☕️*•☕️*•☕️*•☕️•*

I always seem to know when the love of my life has left the bed.

It's not logical. There's no sound that does it, no conscious signal my brain picks up on. It's just... absence. The way my body wakes up expecting warmth and finds empty space instead. The way my arm reaches without instruction, fingers searching for familiar skin, only to brush cold sheets.

My eyes cracked open to the dim gray-blue of Christmas morning, the world still half-asleep. The clock on my nightstand glowed 6:03 a.m.

Too early.
Far too early.

I rolled onto my side anyway, already smiling faintly, already preparing to tuck myself into her chest and steal another hour of sleep.

My hand met nothing.

The bed was empty. Neatly so. Her pillow slightly indented, the blankets smoothed back carefully, like she'd taken her time slipping away. Like she'd been gentle about it.

I frowned, confusion pulling me fully awake.

"Baby?" I murmured, my voice raspy with sleep. "You okay?"

Silence.

The house was still—no footsteps, no murmurs, no sound of anyone else stirring. Just the soft hum of the heater and the faint wind outside brushing against the windows.

Then, faintly, from downstairs—

Clink.

Metal against metal.

Another pause.

Then a softer sound. A scrape. A gentle tap.

A pan.

My lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

Of course.

I rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, my chest filling with something warm and fond. I pressed my face briefly into her pillow, breathing her in—soap, warmth, something unmistakably her—and let myself linger there, savoring the quiet.

She was doing something.
Something thoughtful.
Something unnecessary and generous and entirely her.

I swung my legs out of bed, tugged on an oversized sweatshirt, and padded quietly down the hall, bare feet careful against the floorboards. The house felt suspended in time, like it was holding its breath before the chaos of Christmas really began.

The kitchen light was on.

Soft. Low.

I stopped just short of the doorway.

She stood at the counter with her back to me.

She was wearing a black tank top—one of hers—and flannel pants that hung loose on her hips, sitting low enough to make my brain short-circuit before I could stop it. Her shoulders shifted subtly as she cracked an egg against the counter, the motion smooth and practiced, and tipped it neatly into a large ceramic bowl.

Another egg.
Then another.

She whisked them together slowly, deliberately, like she wasn't in a rush at all. Like this was exactly where she wanted to be.

The light caught the muscles in her back as she moved—strong without trying, relaxed, sure of herself. There was something impossibly intimate about seeing her like this. In my kitchen. In my family's house. Making breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.