Morning comes quietly.
It arrives not with the abrasive urgency of alarms or the sharp, cold pull of professional responsibility, but with the soft, domestic percussion of movement in the kitchen. It is the low, rhythmic hum of a woman who has been awake long before the rest of the house, reclaiming her space in the early light.
Leo wakes first.
The light slipping through the heavy curtains is pale and shy, a dusty gray-gold that barely touches the floor. For a heartbeat, he forgets where he is, his mind searching for the sleek, minimalist lines of his own bedroom. Then the scent reaches him—oil warming in a seasoned pan, onions softening into sweetness, the earthy fragrance of brewing coffee—and memory settles back into place with a comforting weight.
Home.
Not the high-rise apa
