I’ve decided waking up with Emma beside me is substantially better than waking up alone. There’s no panic creeping up my throat. There’s no urgency to throw the covers aside and escape as quickly as possible. I’m not annoyed by another human being. I’m not looking for an excuse about why I can’t stick around.

My mind, which usually runs a million miles an hour categorizing all the things I need to accomplish, is calm. My muscles are relaxed, aches and pains wearing away. My lungs are full of fresh, clean air.

I turn on my side to study the blonde next to me. She’s just as beautiful in the morning light as she is under the moonbeams of the star-streaked night.

My chest aches at the sight of her in my arms, fitting so nicely against me. Her chin has moved to the crook of my neck, body molding into mine.

I think I could get used to starting every day with her cheerful face smiling blearily as I hand her a cup of coffee or bring her a doughnut in bed.

She’s perfection personified, and I’m beginning to think she was designed specifically for me.

There’s so much left of her to explore. I want to learn all of her fantasies and what else gets her hot and bothered in bed, turning into a withering mess.

I also can’t wait to discover more of her intellectual and emotional depth and beauty. I want to listen to her discuss current events. What cases she’s been working on. Her highlighter preferences and what board game is better: Monopoly or Life.

I want to hear her biggest dreams and help protect her from her deepest nightmares.

From the moment I first kissed her, I knew this was going to be more than a one-night fling. That understanding is why I’m not crossing any boundary in the bedroom until we have an explicit conversation. I want to get every goddamn thing right. Last night I picked up on some of her preferences, taking mental notes and filing the observations away for further dissection.

Each gasp, each moan, each scrape of her fingernails over my skin is committed to memory.

Her hollowed-out cheeks, the dribble of drool on her chin, the bob of her throat as she swallowed down my cum in a single gulp, have all been seared in my mind.

The feel of her hand in mine, the soft laugh from her lips, and the twinkle in her eye have all been repeated in my brain a million times, a permanent reminder of exactly how fucking perfect she is.

Emma stirs, the sheet falling away from her shoulders and pooling at her waist. Her nipples poke through the fabric of her thin shirt, hard and pointed. I didn’t get to enjoy them enough last night, too preoccupied with other parts of her.