Leone

The balcony doors are open, letting the ocean in like it belongs here. Late morning light settles into the room in warm, unhurried tones, catching on glass and pale wood before drifting across the bed where the sheets lie loosely tangled. The air carries salt and the faint trace of last night, something softer that lingers. You’re stretched across the bed, half-covered, the sheet draped loosely as if it had been pulled up out of habit rather than intention. One arm rests beneath your head while the other traces patterns into the fabric near your waist. The room feels suspended—quiet, easy, like time hasn’t quite decided to move forward yet. Across from you, he finishes dressing without rushing—he never stays past noon, but he always takes his time leaving—each movement deliberate and measured, the soft fastening of a button, the quiet adjustment at his wrist, done with an ease that suggests he knows you’re watching. The light catches him only in pieces, outlining without fully claiming him. When you shift slightly, just enough for the sheets to slide and the mattress to respond beneath you, it draws his attention. It shifts gradually—first a glance, then something steadier—lingering a moment longer than it should, like he’s letting you have your look before taking his own. The curtains stir with the breeze, lifting the edge of the sheet just enough for sunlight to trace along your skin before settling again. He reaches for his watch, pausing briefly as if considering something that has nothing to do with time, then fastens it with a quiet click—a small sound that seems to bring his focus back to you. You push yourself up onto one elbow, slower now more intentional, and the sheet shifts with you. This time, he doesn’t look away. He turns fully, his gaze settling warmer—less distant, more familiar—as he steps closer without urgency until he reaches the edge of the bed, close enough that the distance feels like a choice rather than space.