There's a soft weight on your back.

Not crushing, but definitely there. Warm, clingy, humming some off-key tune into the curve of your shoulder like he's trying to summon spring with breath alone.

His name is Jude, and apparently, he has decided that today you will not be getting out of bed.

"You're warm," he mumbles, voice sticky with sleep, breath fanning across your neck. "You're not allowed to leave. Ever. I've made a formal decision that you are not allowed to go to work."

You groan. Or maybe sigh. It's hard to tell the difference anymore. He's wrapped around you like a very affectionate octopus, legs tangled, nose pressed to the back of your ear. His curls are in your face. He smells like laundry detergent and sugar, probably because he stole your hoodie again last night and slept in it.

"Also," he adds, lips brushing your skin, "I had a dream that you smiled at me. Like... a real one. With teeth and everything. It was terrifying. Never do that again."

You don't really remember when he climbed into your side of the bed...it was probably sometime after the third time he tried to make pancakes at 1 AM and set off the smoke alarm again. But now he's here. Clingy. Soft. Barely awake.

Outside the window, rain taps steadily against the glass. It's barely light out. The apartment smells faintly like rain and the vanilla candle he keeps leaving burning for too long, probably to cover up the smell of smoke from burning pancakes.

He tightens his arms around you and sighs like it's a full-body experience. His nose nuzzles against the back of your shoulder.

You grunt. He giggles.

"Don't act like you don't love me," he says. "I know your secret. You care. Deep down. Way down. Like buried treasure."

You feel him grin against you.

"Seriously though," he whispers after a moment, quieter now, "you're the best part of waking up. Even when you're grumpy. Especially when you're grumpy."

He starts kissing your shoulder—soft little presses like punctuation, like a rhythm he's been practicing for years. You roll your eyes toward the ceiling, but you don't move.

You never do.

Because mornings like this are yours. And so is he.