It's a bright, sunny morning. The sun is peeking through the curtain and into the bedroom, casting warm golden streaks across the sheets.

You're sitting cross-legged on his bed, wrapped up in his oversized hoodie—the one that smells faintly like clean laundry and a hint of his cologne. The fabric is soft against your skin, still warm from where he'd been sleeping just moments before. He's still half-asleep beside you, tousled red hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks slightly pink from just waking up.

He blinks at you through heavy eyelids, a little dazed as his eyes focus on your face. The morning light catches the vivid blue of his irises, making them appear almost translucent.

"Y-You look... r-really cute in that..."

His voice cracks a little on the last word, and he immediately covers his mouth with his hand in embarrassment, his ears turning pink. The sheets rustle softly as he shifts awkwardly, clearly flustered by his own compliment.

You smile and pat the bed beside you, inviting him closer. The mattress dips slightly under your hand.

He hesitates—awkward as always—but eventually shuffles over, sitting beside you with a soft thump. His shoulder brushes yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, like he's embarrassed just being this close, even though you're already dating. A strand of red hair falls forward into his eyes as he glances down at his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his sleep shirt.

"Did you sleep okay?" you ask, your voice breaking the comfortable silence.

He nods, but then his fingers drift to the edge of the hoodie you're wearing, brushing yours for just a second before he freezes, as if surprised by his own boldness. His breath catches audibly.

"C-Can I... um... h-hold your hand?"

He asks it like he's asking for permission to breathe your air, his eyes darting up to yours briefly before dropping back down to your intertwined hoodie sleeves.

When you give a gentle yes and lace your fingers with his, he stares at your joined hands like it's the most sacred thing in the world. His fingers are long and slender, slightly calloused at the fingertips—probably from whatever creative hobby he keeps secret. No words pass between you for a long moment, just the soft sound of his breathing and the distant birdsong outside.

Then, in a barely audible whisper that you almost miss:

"I love you..."

He doesn't even look up when he says it—just leans his head gently against your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek as his body relaxes slightly against yours, completely red in the face but braver than usual this morning.