[Drabble] Dawn Treading

Dawn Treading
characters undisclosed; teeth-rotting fluff; G (is cuddling PG?); 741 words
a repost from AO3.

She wakes up when the sky was still dark, the tuft of black hair splayed on the pillow beside hers unmoving, and the early morning silence mixing with the soft snores escaping from his lips.

She’s not familiar with early mornings. They’re more his territory, she’d say, waking up at five and leaving for work at half past six, when she’s still barely awake on most days. But it’s Saturday, today is a day off (which she and his boss had forced him to take), and they’d stayed up late to watch the original Star Wars trilogy. She thought his circadian rhythm will wake him up when the dawn comes as it usually is, but a month of stress plus a session of binge-watching movies had screwed it up. Or so she thinks.

Through the half-drawn blinds, the tell-tale rays of morning sun rising from between the tall buildings slip into the quaint bedroom. A soft beep from the bedside clock tells her that it’s quarter past five, still too early to get out of bed. If they want to go somewhere while the sun is not yet scorching, she’ll have to wake him at seven, the latest. But she wants to stay in and laze around–there’s not much to do out there, after all. He can always whip something up from whatever is left in their fridge–crap, groceries, she grunts, suddenly reminded that they’re running low on eggs, milk, apples, or, well, almost everything.

Groceries can wait. Deliveries for breakfast, it is.

Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she lets out a small yawn before settling her sight on him, still fast asleep. By every steady breath and each rise of his chest, she traces the remaining of exhaustion on his face. It’s not like they’re in deep financial problems that he needs to work his ass off–she can still pay her share of lease and loans from her internship paychecks. He insisted to pay for the daily needs, though, in addition to the other half of their yearly leasing expenses, saying that she needs whatever cash she can hold on for her postgraduate programme. She doesn’t really know how many figures he makes by the end of each month, but judging from the way his boss occasionally chide him for working too much, all those extra hours aren’t necessary.

“I’m just trying to save,” he’d said during the late night drive when he picked her up from the hospital after a particularly exhausting night shift, “I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, but I’d like to not impose on people if something unfortunate actually dawns upon us.”

She’d have flushed right there and then if the tiredness wasn’t consuming her consciousness–she likes it when he talks about his life and includes her, like he’s so certain that she’ll always be an integral part of his life. There’s this sense of safety in every word he says, which convinces her that maybe it’s okay to finally settle down for good.

Nuzzling the back of his neck, she takes a deep breath. The baby blue of his old t-shirt feels nice beneath her skin, where she has her arm circled around his waist to cuddle him closer. It’s nice, a slow morning like this, where she can have him for herself without worrying about works and emergency duties to take care of.

He stirs, weakly swatting at his neck, “Tickles.”

“Sorry, sorry!” she hastily pulls back, “Go back to sleep, it’s your day off. Reward yourself, please.”

His response comes in the form of small huffs and mumbles. “I’m already awake. There’s no point in going back to–”

“Ssh. Sleep.”

“Noooooooo,” he tries to roll out of her embrace but stopped short when he realised that–“Why am I the small spoon?”

“I don’t know, why are you the small spoon?”

Seeing that there’s no point to argue, no dignity to save (and it’s kinda nice anyway, but don’t tell her), he stops struggling and asks, “What time is it?”

“Barely past six, sweetheart.”

“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he harrumphs, croaky voice heavy with sleep. “Were you watching me? You were totally watching me, right?”

“Well, you drooled a bit.”

“Creep.” he says, though there’s no bite in his word. He rubs his eyes–“Don’t do that! You’ll hurt your eyeballs!”–and yawns, stretching his body and is rewarded some cracks in response. She chuckles, “Old man.”

“Your old man.”


He bites the tip of her nose playfully before planting a kiss on her right cheek. “Morning. Breakfast?”

She shakes her head, “Cuddle first, breakfast later.”

“But aren’t you hungry? We only ate chips last night.”

“I haven’t done the groceries and we have nothing in the fridge, so. Food delivery?”


Notes: when I say my writing is rusty, then it is indeed rusty.


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