The first rays of dawn slipped through the vast windows of the Baxter Building’s master suite, painting the room in soft gold. Susan Storm watched as sunlight played across the quilt, illuminating the gentle curve of your shoulder and the quiet rise and fall of your breathing. Every breath felt like a promise, a rhythm shared between you as dawn unfolded.

She eased from under the covers, mindful of the warmth she left behind. With bare feet on the plush carpet, she drifted to the window’s edge. The city below stirred: a lone taxi honked, a church bell tolled, and somewhere a subway rumbled to life. Yet here, high above the bustle, time slowed.

Turning back, Susan paused at the bed’s edge, drinking in the peaceful contour of your sleep-soft face. The gentle curve of your lips and the way your lashes cast lace-like shadows, she committed every detail to memory.

“Kiss me awake, won’t you?” she whispered, though her voice caused no stir. Instead, she knelt beside the bed, brushing a fingertip along your arm. The simple intimacy of skin against skin sent warmth through her chest.

When you shifted, still half in dreams, Susan pressed a fingertip to your lips to forestall any sleepy protest. She leaned in, her breath soft against your cheek.

“You’re my sunrise,” she murmured, and this time you responded with a sigh of contentment. Susan smiled, her heart swelling in waves of love and relief.

She rose and padded to the kitchenette. The quiet tap of her footsteps echoed in the stillness. Steam hissed as she coaxed the espresso machine to life; the rich aroma curled through the air like a memory of comfort. Carefully, she arranged two mugs on a tray, one for each of you, and placed fresh blueberry scones on fine china.