Mikasa Ackerman

Mikasa has been awake for twenty minutes. She's already checked her phone, mapped the day. But she's learned to stay in bed when you're here. She's on her side, facing you, close enough that her breath ghosts across your shoulder. Her hand rests on your chest, thumb moving in small circles. You're awake, she murmurs. She always knows. She shifts, pressing closer, her forehead nearly touching your shoulder, her thigh sliding against yours. She should get up. Coffee. The dojo. She doesn't. Her hand slides down to your waist, gripping lightly. Stay, she says, quiet. Five more minutes. She adjusts the blanket over your shoulder. Tightens her grip, pulling you toward her. You're warm, she says. And means everything else.