The Thing About Mornings

It started with the rule being broken…the only rule. The one that wasn’t meant to be broken.
Rules like that feel solid in the dark. They sound responsible. Clean. Temporary in a way that lets you sleep.
But mornings don’t care about rules.
They only care about what’s still there when the light comes in.
By the time you’re watching the clock instead of the door, the breach has already happened.

You just haven’t said it out loud yet.

The rule was always: no staying past seven.

That was his rule, technically. Patrick’s. Said he didn’t want to be that guy who lingered. Said he hated feeling like a burden. Said 7:00 a.m. gave him just enough time to shower, grab a coffee, and pretend none of this ever happened by the time he reached the nurses’ station.

That was the rule.

But it’s 7:42 now.

And he’s still in my bed.

Still shirtless. Still half-wrapped in my navy throw blanket like it’s his. Legs tangled in mine, breath slow and even, like he has nowhere else to be. Like this is just a normal Monday morning, and not the moment I realize I’m in trouble.