His One Night Obsession

A Good Morning

Florence's POV

The sun had no business being that bold.

It sliced straight through the curtain gap like it wanted to burn my eyelids off, and I groaned, rolling onto my back. I stared up at the ceiling while my body fought with my brain about whether getting up was actually worth it. Some mornings felt like negotiations with myself, and this one was no different.

Two full minutes. That's how long I lay there, blinking at nothing, cataloging the sounds of the house settling around me, before I dragged myself into motion.

I sat up slow, the kind of slow that still felt like a protest, and glanced over at Carter. He was still knocked out. Completely gone, one arm stretched across my side of the bed, his chest rising and falling in that deep, easy rhythm that only men with clear consciences could pull off. His face looked younger in sleep, softer somehow, the worry lines around his eyes smoothed out by dreams I'd never know about.

I watched him longer than I should have.

Four years.

The thought hit me warm and quiet, like the first sip of something strong. Four years of this man, this bed, this life I'd built around us. Four years of learning his breathing patterns, the way he mumbled in his sleep sometimes, how he always reached for me even when he was unconscious. I smiled before I even realized it, soft and private, the kind of smile nobody else got to see. The kind that lived in the spaces between words, in the moments before the day demanded anything from me.

I slipped out from under the sheets without waking him and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a gentle click.

The shower knob squeaked when I twisted it, the pipes groaning to life like they did every morning. I peeled off my sleep shirt and shorts while I waited for the water to heat up, letting them drop where they landed. When the steam started rolling over the curtain rod, I stepped in.

The heat slammed into my skin and I let out a breath I'd been holding since yesterday.

I stood under the spray doing absolutely nothing, just feeling the water run down my shoulders, my spine, the backs of my thighs. The tension from last week's presentation melted away, swirling down the drain with the soap. Then I started humming. Low at first, barely a sound, then louder as the water drowned out everything else. One of my favorite songs, no real reason, just the one that came to me this morning. Music always found me when I needed it most.

I washed up slow, taking my time because I could, because this small ritual belonged to me alone.

When I stepped out, the bathroom mirror was completely fogged. I wrapped the towel around myself and cracked the door just enough to let the steam escape before I walked back into the bedroom. Carter still hadn't moved. The man could sleep through a hurricane.

I headed straight to the closet.

It was a nice day outside. I could tell just from the quality of light streaming through the windows, that particular brightness that promised warmth without oppressive heat. I grabbed my off-the-shoulder white shirt first, held it up against myself, then reached for the beige skirt that stopped mid-thigh. The one with the small slit sitting just above my left knee. I laid them both across the chair by the window and went back for my black knee-high boots. The five-inch ones that did exactly what five-inch heels were supposed to do - make me feel like I could conquer anything.

I added the beige sweater last, draping it over the chair while I got dressed, each piece falling into place like armor I chose to wear.

Back in the bathroom with the fog mostly gone, I stood at the mirror and worked on my hair. I brushed it up into a high ponytail, working my curls back to life with my fingers until they sat exactly how I wanted. The familiar routine grounded me, connected me to every version of myself who'd stood at this mirror before. Then I pulled two strands loose to frame my face. I tilted my head, checking the angle from both sides.

This was the part I never rushed. My hair was mine in a way nothing else was. The texture, the weight of it, the way it held shape but still did whatever it wanted. Being a Black woman and owning that fully, loving it without apology, was something I'd grown into and wasn't giving back. My mother had taught me that - not with words, but with the way she carried herself, the way she never shrunk to make others comfortable. I saw her in my reflection sometimes, in the set of my jaw, the confidence in my eyes.

I kept the makeup light. A little concealer, a swipe of mascara, a gloss that was barely there. Natural. Clean. On purpose. I wanted people to see me today, not a mask.

I stepped back from the mirror, looked at myself once, and nodded. The woman staring back at me looked ready. Felt ready.

Downstairs. Coffee. Waffles.

Today was going to be a good day. I could feel it in my bones, that quiet certainty that sometimes visited without warning, a gift I'd learned to accept without questioning.