She'd wake up first, as usual, but not alone, opening her eyes to the sound of his even breathing beside her, or–more often than not–on top of her. This time his head was on her shoulder, one arm over her waist in a loose grip that made her think he had made a possessive attempt to bring her closer while he was half-asleep but forgot about it after he fell back into his dreaming.

She didn't wake him up; she hated doing that, so she just waited for a few minutes until he shifted his position like she knew he would. He always seemed at least partially conscious when he was asleep, moving around and mumbling things she couldn't understand.

She snuck out of bed without making noise, and then to the kitchen. She started the coffee machine, leaning against the counter with a hand resting in the mess of curly brown hair on her head.