Your alarm goes off. Time to get up.

She’s still curled between your legs when your alarm goes off. Hair mussed across her cheek, one bare shoulder peeking from the blankets. Her eyes open when you touch her arm, but the look is soft, like she hasn’t really come back yet.

“Morning,” you say.

She blinks once. Her lips part, but no words come out.

You brush the hair from her face, letting your fingers linger at her temple. “Come on,” you murmur, voice low and steady. “Let’s get you in the shower.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t do much of anything when you slide an arm under her knees and another behind her back. She melts against your chest as you carry her, head resting on your shoulder, the weight of her body loose and trusting.

The bathroom begins to fog as soon as you turn the water on. You set her down gently on the counter edge. “Sit.” She obeys, legs swinging idly as you test the water. When it’s warm enough, you take her hand and guide her under the spray.

The first hiss of water against her skin makes her shiver. You keep a steady hand at her lower back while the warmth works into her muscles, tilting her forward so the stream runs down her spine.

“Arms up.” She lifts them without hesitation, palms open. You take the soap and start at her wrists, working slow, circular passes down to her elbows. She lets her eyes close. You keep moving, sliding over the soft skin of her inner arms, down to her shoulders.

Her breath changes when you run your thumbs into the knots under her shoulder blades, kneading until you feel them loosen. Then you move lower, soaping the length of her back, your hands spanning her waist before tracing the flare of her hips.

You turn her gently, facing you now. She keeps her head bowed while you work the lather across her collarbone and down her chest, the water rinsing away suds as quickly as you make them. You take your time with her stomach, rubbing slow circles into the soft plane just above her hips.

“Step closer,” you murmur. She does, until the water runs over both of you.

You soap your hands again before sinking your fingers into her hair, massaging the lather into her scalp. She tips her head back into your palms, a quiet sound escaping her. A half sigh, half hum. You keep working until every strand is covered, then turn her so the water can rinse it through, combing it smooth with your fingers.

You don’t rush. You let her stand there with her head tipped under the spray, your palm against the back of her neck, until she blinks her eyes open again.

You kneel for the rest. One hand guiding her ankle forward, you wash each calf and shin, pausing to squeeze the muscles gently before moving to her feet. She giggles when your thumb brushes her arch, but she doesn’t pull away.

When you stand again, you let the water rinse away the last of the soap. She sways a little, so you steady her by the hips, drawing her in until her forehead rests against your collarbone.

“Done,” you tell her, kissing the top of her head.

She stays pressed against you while you turn off the water. You wrap her in a towel first, tucking it snug under her arms, then grab one for yourself. She follows you out without a word, bare feet silent on the tile.

Back in the bedroom, you ease her down onto the bed, still wrapped in the towel. Her hair is damp and clings to her cheek until you smooth it back. She looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, watching every move you make as you dress.

“Rest while I’m gone,” you say.

She nods, watching you as you get dressed. And when you glance back at the door, she’s still watching, her towel clutched loosely around her, looking warm and impossibly small in the morning light.

You move through the house on quiet feet, doing your best not to rouse Mariana again.

The cats are already waiting in the kitchen. Fatty sits in the middle of the floor, tail flicking, wearing the blankly expectant look of someone who knows breakfast is coming whether you like it or not. You open the tin, portion out their food, and they’re too busy eating to care about you anymore.

You don’t bother with coffee. Just pour a bowl of cereal, the milk cold enough to bite against your teeth, and lean against the counter while you eat.

The PocketWatch is still plugged into the wall port. The light blinks green. You swipe it up and check the queue.

One from Alex.

Sorry for the late reply. Went out of town to visit my parents. Haven’t had a chance to sit down and check messages until now. I’m open to the idea, but I’ve got to cram for exams until Wednesday. Are you free for dinner Thursday?

You stare at the words for a moment, feeling a little of the static from this morning fade into something easier, lighter.

You type back, keeping it simple.

Not a problem. Thursday sounds great. I'll ping you my address. Lets say 8:00 pm?

Message sent. The blinking light on the PocketWatch goes dark, and the kitchen is just the sound of the cats finishing up their food.