When the Morning is You

The sun had climbed high, pouring a soft midday glow through the bedroom window, casting lazy stripes across the rumpled sheets and the two figures still nestled beneath them.

Billy lay with his face tucked into the crook of Artur's neck, one arm lazily draped across his waist. Artur's hand rested on Billy's back, fingers tracing slow, idle lines along his spine.

The room was still, the kind of stillness that made time feel optional. Their bodies fit like puzzle pieces beneath the tangle of sheets—quiet, content, and just a little too warm.

It was peaceful.

Until Billy's stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.

Artur's chest shook with laughter. "Well, that was dramatic," he murmured, smiling against Billy's hair.

Billy groaned without lifting his head. "That wasn't me. It was my heartbreak talking."

Artur blinked. "Heartbreak?"