Sunday Morning Heat

Sunday Morning Heat

The world was still asleep when I slipped from the bed, the air in the house cool and hushed. Downstairs, the coffee pot murmured to life, and outside, the gravel crunched beneath my boots. The dawn air was sharp enough to sting my cheeks, but it woke something inside me — a quiet thrill, a sense that the day might hold more than it seemed.

I wandered the edge of the property, letting the cold bite at my skin, until the thought of his warmth pulled me back. The house was dark, the stairs creaking softly under my weight. I eased open the bedroom door, and there he was — tangled in the sheets, his breathing slow and even. I slid in beside him, the sunrise spilling across the room in ribbons of gold.

He stirred, eyes finding mine with that boyish, half‑asleep smile that always undid me. A stretch, a yawn, and then he was gone to the bathroom, returning moments later with the easy grace of a man who knew exactly where he belonged. Without a word, he drew me close, his body radiating heat, his breath warm against my hair.

Later, I found him outside at the wood stove, sleeves pushed up, the morning light catching in his hair. He worked with an effortless rhythm, the scent of woodsmoke curling between us. Our conversation skipped from one topic to the next until his gaze caught mine — steady, unblinking, and full of something unspoken.

I stepped closer, the heat from the stove mingling with the heat in his eyes. The air between us thickened, charged with a promise neither of us had voiced. He didn’t move at first, letting the moment stretch, letting me feel the weight of his attention. My pulse quickened.

When he finally leaned in, his voice was low, his words brushing my ear like velvet. The rest unfolded in a slow, deliberate dance — a teasing push and pull, a building of tension until the world beyond the woodshed ceased to exist.

By the time the fire roared, so did we — not in haste, but in that lingering, savoring way that makes every second feel like forever.

Some mornings are for chores. Others are for remembering exactly why you can’t stay away.

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