Avan stirred when the smell of coffee reached him.
Not sharply—he was never the sort who startled awake—but with the kind of gradual awareness that came from years of early sessions and later nights. His senses caught up one by one: warmth first, then absence.

The space beside him was empty, the sheets still warm but slowly cooling. He blinked into the soft grey light, his mind fogged with the haze of half-dreams. The skyline bled pale blue through the glass, and for a moment, he let himself lie there, eyes half-open, listening to the city wake up beneath them.

Then he heard her.
The quiet shuffle of bare feet across tile, the soft hum of the espresso machine, the faint rustle of fabric—his shirt against her skin.

A smile ghosted across his mouth before he even realised it.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The sheets pooled at his waist, the cool air brushing against his back. He’d always hated mornings that arrived too soon, but this one felt different—gentler somehow. Like the world was trying not to disturb what they’d built in the dark.

When he finally stood, the floor was cold under his feet. He tugged on the nearest pair of joggers, padding quietly toward the sound of her.

The sight stopped him in the doorway.

Imogen—barefoot, his shirt hanging loose, one sleeve slipping off her shoulder—leaning against the counter, eyes half-closed, face softened by that fragile, in-between light. There was no camera flash, no choreography, just her. Real, unguarded, luminous in the quiet way he loved most.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just watched her, memorising it—the way the morning light caught the edges of her hair, the soft curve of her neck, the steam curling up around her face. The kind of image he’d never capture in a song without cheapening it.

He cleared his throat gently, enough to let her know he was there. “You’re up early,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep, the vowels soft, drawn out. “Didn’t think I’d find you awake before the sun.”

She turned, startled for only a heartbeat before her expression eased into something warmer. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, tilting his head.

When she started to answer, he crossed the space between them, the floor cool beneath his steps, the air carrying that faint mix of espresso and her perfume. He reached out, fingers brushing her arm, feather-light, as if to confirm she was real and not a leftover dream.

“You could’ve stayed,” he said softly, his voice dropping lower, a kind of morning sincerity that left no room for bravado. “Didn’t need to move yet.”

His eyes flicked down to the shirt she was wearing, his own, wrinkled and far too big. “Looks better on you anyway.”

He reached past her to grab a mug, close enough that his breath warmed her shoulder. “You made enough for two?” he asked, a faint tease threading through the softness.

She handed him a second cup without a word, and he took it, their fingers brushing. The warmth of her skin against his lingered even after he pulled back.

They stood side by side for a while, saying nothing, watching the first hint of daylight chase the last of the blue from the city.

After a moment, he spoke again, quiet and unhurried. “You know,” he said, glancing sideways at her, “you don’t have to pretend. Not here. Not with me.” He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes returning to the window. “You can just… be. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

Her reflection shifted in the glass, his beside hers, two silhouettes against a city that didn’t know them like this. He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that lived more in his eyes than on his lips.

And with that, Avan Khan—the man the industry knew as careful, composed, impossible to read—leaned his shoulder against hers, quiet and sure, sharing a stolen sunrise with the only person who ever made him forget what it meant to hide.

Imogen had woken before the light.
Not by accident, but by choice.

She wanted to steal this—the fragile hour before everything started moving again, before her phone would light up with reminders of who she was supposed to be. Before the makeup, the stylists, the interviews, the curated version of her day began to swallow her whole.

So she’d gotten up quietly, feet light on marble, hair a wild halo around her face, and let the city stretch awake beyond the windows.

Now, standing in Avan’s kitchen with the coffee machine humming low and steady, she watched the steam curl through the air and thought about how good it felt to exist without a camera pointed at her. No angles. No lines rehearsed. Just breath and warmth and stillness.

She could still feel him on her skin—the echo of his touch from the night before, the way his hands had steadied her in the water, the way silence had dissolved into something slower, deeper. They hadn’t spoken much after, just drifted together under dim light until everything else stopped mattering.

And now, here she was: barefoot, wearing his shirt, standing in a kitchen that smelled like espresso and sleep.
It was maddeningly domestic.
And she loved it.

When she heard him stir, that low sound of movement from down the hall, something warm fluttered through her chest. A tug she tried not to name. She poured another cup before he appeared, pretending not to anticipate the sight of him, still half-dream, half-man.

Then his voice found her—rough, sleep-soft, grounding—and she turned, her pulse doing that stupid thing it always did around him.

He looked like morning personified. The lazy curve of his mouth, hair mussed from sleep, the faintest shadow on his jaw.
She wanted to memorize it. She wanted to take it with her.

When he teased about her being up early, she smiled, small and crooked, fingers tightening around the mug. “I didn’t want to waste it,” she murmured, her voice quiet but steady. “This part. Before the world wakes up.”

It wasn’t a confession, but it wasn’t far from one.

She could feel his presence beside her even before he moved closer—the soft heat of his body, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with hers. He said she could’ve stayed, and maybe he was right. Maybe she should have.

But she knew herself too well.
She would’ve stayed too long.

“It’s easier to get up before I remember how much I don’t want to leave,” she said softly, eyes still fixed on the skyline. The first blush of sunlight kissed the glass, pale and slow, and she let herself watch it spill across the city. “The day waits for no one, not even us.”

Her tone was wistful, but not sad. Just honest.

The sound of him moving—his hand brushing her arm, his breath near her temple—made her chest ache in that quiet, familiar way. He said she didn’t have to pretend, and maybe that was what she loved most about him: the way he made truth sound safe.

“I know,” she said finally, turning her head slightly toward him, her hair brushing his shoulder. “That’s why I wanted to wake up early. To have this before I go back to pretending I don’t.”

Her gaze flicked up, meeting his for the briefest, electric second before dropping back to her mug.

The silence after was warm. Full.

She took a sip of coffee, letting it ground her, and breathed out a small laugh that wasn’t quite amusement, more something like surrender. “You make it too easy to forget what I’m supposed to be doing,” she whispered, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

Outside, the city was awake now—headlights cutting across wet pavement, life beginning to hum again. But up here, wrapped in quiet and gold light, it still felt like theirs.

She leaned into his shoulder without thinking, their reflections framed in the glass—two figures caught between night and day, between wanting and letting go.

For a little while longer, she decided, she could pretend the world wasn’t waiting.
That the day could start whenever they were ready.

Avan stood there for a moment, just watching her—trying to commit the sight to memory before it could slip into the blur of another morning.

There was something about the way she fit into his space that made it feel less like a flat and more like a life—bare feet on marble, sunlight gathering along the hem of his shirt, coffee curling steam between them. He’d never realised how starved he’d been for the ordinary until she’d stepped into it.

He moved closer, slow, unhurried, his voice still a little rough. “You’re not wasting it,” he said, low enough that it almost folded into the hum of the machine. “You’re the reason this part of the day’s worth waking up for.”

He reached past her for his mug again, fingers brushing her wrist as he did. The contact was light, but it grounded them both. “You always chase the quiet,” he added, glancing toward the window. “Even when you’re pretending not to.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Guess we’ve both been doing that longer than we’ll admit.”

When she said it was easier to get up before she remembered she didn’t want to leave, something in his chest pulled tight. He turned his head slightly, studying the line of her jaw, the way the morning light caught her lashes. “You don’t have to,” he said gently. “Not yet. The world can start without you for once.”

He said it like a man making an offer, not a demand—his voice patient, calm, laced with the kind of sincerity that didn’t need emphasis.

Her laugh—the small, tired one that always broke through right before she let herself soften—made him smile too. “You’re allowed to forget what you’re supposed to be doing,” he murmured. “Hell, half the time I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing either.” He took a slow sip of coffee, the warmth settling between them. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s enough to just be here for a bit.”

He tilted his head toward the window, where the first streaks of light were brushing across the skyline. “See that?” he said quietly. “The whole city trying to prove it can start again every morning. Doesn’t matter how dark it gets. There’s a lesson in that somewhere.”

Then, softer, leaning closer so his words found her ear: “You don’t have to start performing the second the sun’s up, love. Let them wait. You’ve earned a slow beginning.”

She leaned into his shoulder, and he turned just enough that his chin brushed the top of her head. The contact was instinctive, gentle, protective without meaning to be. He breathed her in—coffee, sleep, something warm and human—and let his arm settle around her waist.

They stood like that for a long time, watching the light creep higher, the city waking beneath them.

When he finally spoke again, it was barely more than a whisper. “You always say the day waits for no one,” he murmured. “But maybe it’s been waiting for you to stop running.”

He felt her smile against his shoulder, and his thumb brushed slow circles over her side. “Stay till the world starts knocking,” he said. “Then we’ll let it in. Together.”

He looked at their reflection in the glass—her in his shirt, him still half-dreaming—and smiled. “You and me,” he said softly. “Between night and day. I could live right here.”

She didn’t need to check her phone to know the day was already looking for her.
She could feel it—the phantom buzzes that hadn’t come yet, the unanswered messages waiting in neat, relentless rows, the calendar she’d filled to the brim with promises she never got to keep for herself.

Somewhere out there, her team was already awake.
Somewhere, Devon was probably posting something carefully curated to keep their story alive.
And somewhere, the headlines were circling, waiting for her to give them something to chew on.

But here…
Here, it was still quiet.

The kind of quiet that made her think maybe she could keep it if she just stayed still enough.

She looked down at the cup between her hands, the steam rising lazy and gold in the morning light, and thought about how ridiculous it was that something so small—standing barefoot in his kitchen, wearing his shirt—could feel like rebellion. Like she’d snuck out of her own life and found the soft part of the world no one told her existed.

His words still echoed in her head.
You’ve earned a slow beginning.

She wanted to believe that.
That she didn’t have to rush to earn peace. That she could stop running for once and the world wouldn’t end.

Imogen leaned her hip against the counter, watching the sunlight spill slowly across the marble. His arm was still around her waist, heavy and comforting, his chin brushing her hair in that absent, protective way that always made her chest tighten.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke, afraid that if she did, she’d stay forever. “You paint it so easy,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “This picture of slow mornings and quiet starts.”

Her eyes flicked toward the skyline, where the first burst of sunlight was pushing through the mist. “You make me want to believe it’s real.”

The admission came out softer than she intended—less a confession, more a truth she’d run out of energy to hide.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He just tightened his arm a little, and she felt it—steady, grounding, wordless understanding.

She let out a long breath, the kind that deflated everything she’d been holding in. “I’ve spent so much time trying not to screw up,” she said quietly. “Every choice, every word, every smile—it’s all part of the act. I can’t remember the last time I let something happen just because I wanted to.”

Her lips curved faintly, sad but soft. “Maybe one morning won’t ruin me.”

She tilted her head just enough to look at him then. The light caught her eyes, gold rimmed with tiredness, but something alive flickered there too. “Maybe I get to slip up once.”

Her hand found his where it rested at her waist, fingers weaving between his. “And if the world doesn’t stop spinning, maybe I’ll do it again.”

She smiled then—slow, small, real.

The city outside had fully woken now, but she didn’t turn toward it. She leaned back against him instead, letting the moment stretch a little longer, stealing another quiet breath before the noise found her again.

“You and me,” she echoed softly, tasting the words like something sacred. “Between night and day.”

Her thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, slow and deliberate. “If this is what it feels like to fall behind, then maybe I don’t want to catch up.”

The sunlight caught her hair, warm against his collarbone, and for the first time in years, Imogen Porter stopped worrying about being perfect—
and simply let herself be.

Avan felt her lean into him and didn’t move, not even to answer.
He knew better than to fill moments like this with sound. Words, even kind ones, could shatter what silence was already doing perfectly on its own.

The city was starting to climb its way into the day beyond the glass—honking cars, the faint rumble of a train somewhere far below—but in here, it all stayed soft. Her warmth against him, her voice threading through the air like something fragile he didn’t dare disturb.

He watched the steam from her cup curl upward, the way it caught the light before disappearing. “That’s the thing about it,” he said quietly, after a while. “You don’t have to paint it. It’s already real. You’re just usually too busy to notice you’re in it.”

His tone wasn’t scolding, just tender—an English murmur that carried the weight of gentleness rather than advice. “The quiet’s not pretending to exist only for me,” he went on, thumb tracing slow circles against her hip. “It’s always been there. It’s just been waiting for you to stop performing long enough to hear it.”

When she spoke about control—about never letting herself want something without calculating the cost—his chest ached. He’d known versions of that feeling, though never on the scale she did. The kind of life where every gesture came with commentary, every breath measured for optics. He didn’t envy her that.

So instead of trying to fix it, he softened his hold, pressing a small kiss against her hair. “You won’t ruin yourself by wanting a morning,” he said, voice low, steady. “You can’t undo years of surviving with one hour of peace. And if you could—well, that’d be one hell of a beautiful way to go.”

Her hand found his, their fingers weaving together, and he turned his wrist slightly so his thumb could rest in the hollow of her palm. “You don’t have to call it a slip-up,” he murmured. “You’re not breaking anything by being happy for a bit.”

He smiled, just enough for her to hear it in his tone. “But if you want to call it that, I’ll slip with you. We’ll call it practice.”

Her words—between night and day—settled over him like a vow. He glanced toward their reflection in the glass: her in his shirt, light on her skin; him still half-shadow, half-dream. The contrast made something in him ache, but not with sadness. With awe.

“You know what I think?” he said softly. “We were never meant to belong entirely to either one. You bring the light where it shouldn’t reach, and I drag the dark with me wherever I go. It’s no wonder we meet here—right in the middle.”

He turned his head slightly, his breath brushing her temple. “Stay here a little longer,” he whispered. “Let the world do its noise. You’ve got time before they start knocking.”

She said maybe she didn’t want to catch up, and his thumb brushed her wrist again, lazy and sure. “Then don’t,” he murmured. “The world’s been spinning just fine without your permission. Let it chase you for once.”

He rested his chin atop her head, the morning light spilling gold across both of them, and for a heartbeat that felt like forever, Avan Khan—the man built on control and precision—did nothing but hold her, still and certain.

“Imogen,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, “you don’t have to earn this. You never did.”

And then, quieter still, meant only for her:
“Stay as long as you like. I’ll keep the noise out.”

Imogen let his words wash over her, slow and tender, until even the ones that scared her started to sound like truth.
He had that effect on her—turning things that should’ve been heavy into something soft enough to carry.

The world outside their glass cocoon moved on: headlights slipping through the fading dark, a plane cutting a silver line across the sky, the hum of the city beginning its climb toward chaos. But inside Avan’s kitchen, everything remained suspended. Warmth. Steam. The rhythm of their breathing.

She took another sip of coffee, letting it coat her tongue, letting the taste linger. It wasn’t perfect—too strong, too hot—but it was real. And in that moment, that was everything she wanted to hold on to.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe this was what normal felt like.
Waking before the world, standing barefoot on cold marble, his arm around her waist, sunlight still deciding whether it wanted to touch them.

No lights. No scripts. No audience.

She could feel him still watching her, and for once, she didn’t mind being seen. Not by him. He saw her without expectation—without wanting anything except what was already there.

And she thought—God, maybe I’ve been surviving for too long to remember what it means to live.

Her gaze lingered on the skyline. Somewhere down there, her name was already being said. Somewhere, her schedule was already unfolding without her. She should have felt guilty for standing here, wasting time. But for the first time in years, she didn’t.

She’d earned this.
She was sure of it.

After another sip, she set her mug down on the counter and turned toward him. The motion was slow, deliberate. The kind that made the air shift, made the moment feel heavier, more alive.

Her arms found their way around him easily, like they’d been waiting to. She pressed her cheek against his chest, breathing him in. Coffee. Skin. Calm.

For a while, she just held him, saying nothing. Letting silence do what it always did best between them—say everything words couldn’t.

When she finally lifted her head, her eyes found his. She didn’t move her hands from where they rested on his back. “Once everyone thinks Devon and I are done,” she said quietly, the words barely above a breath, “I want this. You.”

Her voice trembled at first, but she didn’t stop. “I know my publicist would tell me it’s a terrible idea. That it’s messy. Complicated. That it’ll ruin the narrative they’ve worked so hard to control.” A small, rueful smile touched her mouth. “But I’m starting to care less about the story they want to sell and more about the one I actually want to live.”

Her fingers flexed against the fabric at his back, grounding herself. “My contract with Devon’s done in a few months,” she went on. “Then maybe I’ll finally start speaking for myself. Maybe I’ll stop letting everyone else decide who I get to be.”

She drew back just enough to look at him again, but didn’t let go. “I’ve been told my whole career that success is about momentum—that if I stop, even for a second, I’ll disappear.” She shook her head slowly. “But it won’t be worth anything if I can’t have mornings like this. If I can’t feel like this.”

Her breath caught halfway between confession and relief. “You make everything else feel small, Avan. Not unimportant—just… quieter. Manageable.”

She smiled then, soft and real. The kind that didn’t belong to the stage, or a camera, or a label. The kind that belonged only to him.

Her thumbs brushed over the fabric at his sides, tracing absent circles. “Maybe the world doesn’t need to know what this is,” she whispered. “Not yet. But I do. I need to know I’m choosing it. That I’m choosing you.”

Outside, the sun finally broke across the skyline, flooding the kitchen in gold. The city came alive, restless and loud—but in here, Imogen stayed in his arms, holding onto the stillness like it was the only truth she’d ever been certain of.

Then, softly, after a long, lingering silence, she pulled back just enough to look at him again. Her smile was gentler now, tinged with that inevitable ache she’d been trying to delay.

“I should get going,” she said quietly, though her voice betrayed her reluctance. “The day’s not going to wait forever.”

Her hands stayed where they were for a few seconds longer, fingertips brushing against him, unwilling to let go completely.

“I don’t want to leave,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “But I will. And when I do… just know I’m already counting down the days until I don’t have to anymore.”

She rose onto her toes then, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek—brief, tender, and final enough to hurt a little.

Then she stepped back, the morning light spilling between them like a promise she fully intended to keep.

Avan didn’t move at first.
He just looked at her—the way the light had found her, caught in the edges of her hair, painting her in gold like she was something the morning itself had decided to keep.

He wanted to say something clever, something easy, to make the heaviness in her voice lift. But nothing he could say felt equal to the quiet kind of courage in her words. So he did what he always did when she was braver than he knew how to be: he let the truth find its own pace.

His fingers brushed the edge of the counter, as if grounding himself before he reached for her again. “You have no idea,” he said softly, the faint rasp of sleep still in his accent, “how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that. Not for me—just for you.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that she could still leave if she wanted to. “You’ve been living on borrowed versions of yourself for years. Always performing, always surviving. You deserve a life that’s not measured by how well you keep up.”

She started to speak, but he shook his head, his hand finding her jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath her chin. “And I don’t care what your publicist thinks. You don’t ruin stories, Imogen. You rewrite them. You make people believe in better endings.”

When she mentioned Devon, his jaw flexed—not from jealousy, but from the quiet frustration of watching her forced into a part that never fit. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for what isn’t real,” he said. “You’ve already given the world more than it deserves.”

He let his hand drop, resting it at her waist again. “And if you’re really choosing me…” His voice softened, turned almost shy. “Then you should know I’ve already chosen you. I did, years ago. The first time you looked at me across a studio and made every sound I’d ever known feel small.”

The smile that followed was quiet and a little unsteady—because even now, even here, she still managed to undo him.

“You don’t have to rush,” he added. “Finish what needs finishing. Walk through the noise until you’re clear of it. I’ll be here when you are. You’ll know where to find me.”

When she rose to kiss his cheek, his eyes closed for just a second longer than necessary, holding the warmth of her there before it could fade. He wanted to turn his head, to catch her mouth instead—but he didn’t. He let her have the last word.

As she stepped back, the sunlight slipped between them, soft and sharp all at once. He reached out, caught her hand for a heartbeat before she could pull it fully away. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, slow. “Then I’ll count with you,” he murmured. “Day by day.”

He didn’t say stay, because he wouldn’t ask her to choose him over her own freedom. He just stood there, watching her gather herself back into the world, every movement deliberate, brave.

When she turned toward the door, he spoke again—quiet, steady, the sound of something honest and certain. “Imogen,” he said, and she looked back, half in shadow, half in light.

His voice gentled even more. “You don’t have to disappear to come back to me. Just come as you are.”

He watched her go, the door opening to the noise and the gold of the morning.
And when it clicked shut behind her, Avan exhaled into the silence she left behind—coffee cooling on the counter, the scent of her still hanging in the air—knowing that, for once, waiting didn’t feel like losing.