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The first thing Ashtine felt was warmth—not just any warmth, but him.
Not the blanket. Not the sun that seeped in from the slit of the curtains.
But the very real, very alive warmth of a body against hers.
She blinked slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light, her lashes fluttering against a cheek—his cheek?
The realization was slow. Gentle. Like waves rolling in before the tide reveals something long buried beneath the surface. She was tucked into Andres's chest. His arm was around her waist, his other hand draped lazily across her shoulder, their legs tangled like vines. It didn't feel accidental. It felt...natural.
Andres breathed in deep. Then stilled.
They both froze at the same time.
"…You're awake, aren't you?" he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.
Ashtine didn't answer at first. Because she wasn't sure how.
Then softly, "Yeah. You?"
He gave a short breath—half a chuckle, half disbelief.
"I think so."
They didn't move. Didn't untangle themselves. Maybe it was because they were too comfortable. Or maybe, just maybe, they were both afraid that moving would make it real.
"I didn't mean to—" Andres started.
"—Me neither," she whispered quickly. "I swear I was on the couch."
"I swear I said I'd sleep on the floor."
A pause.
"…So how did we end up here?" she asked.
"I have no idea."
Silence. But not awkward.
Not cold.
She felt his heart beating, steady and close. It made her want to keep listening.
"You're not mad?" he asked.
She shook her head against his chest. "No. Just surprised."
"I thought you were a kicker in your sleep."
"I thought you snored."
"I do snore," he admitted.
They both laughed quietly. It was strange, how light it felt. How right.
Eventually, Ashtine slowly sat up, rubbing at her eyes. Andres did the same, his hair mussed, hoodie twisted at the waist. The blanket slipped from their shoulders.
The room was soft with morning light. Nothing dramatic. No flashing neon signs. Just a quiet, sacred moment of realization:
They hadn't done anything… but everything had changed.
She swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood. Her oversized shirt fell mid-thigh, and his gaze flicked to her and back again before he looked away politely.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"God, yes," he said.
She padded out of the room first. Andres stayed a moment longer, exhaling slowly and pressing his palm to his face. What just happened?
In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. Ashtine moved on autopilot—two mugs, the same way they had it last time. It felt almost domestic.
Almost… like they'd done this before.
He joined her in silence, accepting the mug with a quiet "thanks."
They stood in her kitchen in that early hush of morning, both pretending they weren't still thinking about the bed.
"Should we… talk about it?" she finally asked.
Andres looked at her over the rim of his mug. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
"I don't want to ruin it," she admitted.
He smiled. "Me neither."
More silence.
Then: "So… we're just friends, right?" she teased.
He tilted his head slowly, giving her the softest smirk. "Totally. Normal. Very platonic friends who sleep in the same bed and wake up holding each other."
She laughed into her mug.
"Should we panic?" he asked.
"I think we're past that."
A pause.
"I remember waking up at like 3 a.m.," she murmured, "and you were already there."
"Same," he said. "I woke up and you were curled into me. I thought I was dreaming."
Her eyes met his.
Maybe it was the way his voice softened when he spoke to her. Maybe it was how her laugh always made him stand up straighter, like he was trying to catch it again.
Or maybe it was just that the world didn't feel loud between them anymore.
"Are we… avoiding something?" she asked.
He nodded once. "Probably."
And yet neither of them moved to define it.
She stepped back, leaning on the counter. "No one knows. No one saw."
"Let's keep it that way. Just for a little while."
"Yeah," she said. "I like it like this."
Private.
Untouched.
Theirs.
When he left an hour later, it wasn't with distance—it was with a promise. The kind that didn't need to be spoken.
And later that day, when she scrolled through her gallery and paused at a blurry, accidental picture of the two of them tangled in her sheets—his hoodie sleeve wrapped over her wrist, her cheek pressed into his collarbone—she didn't delete it.
She saved it.
And in her heart, she named it:
"The morning everything started."
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