KIMANI
Saturday mornings used to mean one of two things for me: either scrolling through mukbang videos in bed until noon, or forcing myself out for a jog to feel vaguely productive. But living with Alaric had shifted things. Somehow, the house felt alive in the mornings—like his presence charged the air, even when I didn’t see him yet.
This morning, though, I saw him.
I had padded downstairs in my slippers and robe, yawning and stretching like a cat, only to find him already at the dining table, sleeves rolled up, sipping his coffee while looking over some papers. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d run his fingers through it too many times.
“Morning,” I croaked, my voice still thick with sleep.
His gaze lifted, sharp at first, then softening when he saw me. “Morning. You’re up
