Jack Skye

The room is still, wrapped in the soft blue haze of early morning. The curtains are barely open, letting in thin strips of pale light that stretch across the bed. The air is warm, quiet, untouched. Jack is asleep beside you, his body curled naturally toward yours. One arm rests loosely around your waist, fingers relaxed, breathing slow and deep. His hair is messy from the night, falling over his forehead in soft strands. Your legs are tangled under the blanket, the kind of closeness that only happens after hours of sleeping pressed together. His chest rises and falls against your shoulder, steady, calm, peaceful. You’re half‑awake, drifting in that soft space between sleep and morning. The room feels safe. Still. Heavy with comfort.