Morning filters in, soft and golden, their bodies still tender, still sore from the night, but the ache only deepens the need. Hands find familiar places, slow, deliberate, skin to skin, whispers of touch igniting what never truly slept. In the quiet, they move toward each other, drawn by a pulse, an irresistible pull, aching, yet craving— to begin again, in the slow warmth of Sunday morning.