Noah's POV
The morning light is soft—milky and cold and quiet.
It slips in through the gauzy curtains of the living room, casting a pale glow across the room. Soon, the sun will be up and everyone will wake and rhe house will be full of activity. It'll be loud, chaotic and great.
But, for now, as the sky outside is lightening by the second, I am at peace.
It's the rare kind of silence you only get between night and day, between sleep and waking. The birdsong and sweet dreams kind.
I don't want to get up.
My head is resting on Logan's thighs. His legs are warm beneath me, and his hand—loose and limp—rests just above my spine. I can hear his breathing, deep and slow. On his bare chest, Oliver sleeps curled like a kitten, his cheek pressed to Logan's heart, small fingers curled in on Logan's skin.
