Morning arrived without apology.
Light filtered in through the thin curtains, pale and insistent. Juni woke first, the unfamiliar quiet momentarily disorienting. Then he registered the weight behind him—Elian's arm resting loosely at his waist, breath steady against the back of his neck.
No rush. No tension.
Just morning.
Juni stayed still, listening to the city stir outside. A car passed. Somewhere below, a door opened and closed. Ordinary sounds, anchoring him to the day ahead.
He shifted carefully, sliding out from Elian's arm without waking him. The floor was cool beneath his feet. In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and leaned against the counter while it heated, eyes unfocused.
This was new—not the closeness, but the lack of spectacle. There was no lingering intensity, no whispered promises. Just the quiet competence of two people who knew how to move around each other.
Elian appeared a few minutes later, hair still disordered, sleeves pushed up. "You're up early," he said.
Juni smiled faintly. "You weren't waking."
Elian poured coffee and leaned against the counter beside him. Their shoulders brushed, familiar and unremarkable.
They ate quickly—toast, fruit, the last of the tea. Juni packed his bag while Elian checked his schedule, both moving with the efficiency of people already aware of time's demands.
At the door, Elian hesitated. "You okay?"
Juni nodded. "Yeah."
It was true. And yet—
Walking away minutes later, Juni realized something unsettled him more than expected: how easily the morning had folded into routine.
Closeness had stopped announcing itself.
At his campus, Juni settled into a corner of the studio and opened his sketchbook. He drew from memory at first—the curve of Elian's shoulder, the shape of light on the kitchen wall. Then he turned outward, capturing the room around him.
During lunch, he ate alone again, but it didn't sting the way it had before. The solitude felt… chosen. Temporary.
As the afternoon stretched on, the thought returned quietly: intimacy now lived inside repetition, not novelty.
That frightened him, just a little.
Not because it felt wrong—but because it felt real.
When his phone buzzed later—
Elian: Busy morning?
—Juni smiled.
Juni: Ordinary.
The word lingered after he sent it.
And for the first time, ordinary felt like something worth protecting.