There's a morning that arrives differently. The dark loosens its grip a little earlier. Light finds its way through the trees and lands, quiet and unannounced, across the bed.

This is the season of in-between. Not winter anymore, not yet spring. We stay here, in the pause, in the slow unfurling. The sheer curtain lifting with the breeze. The shadow of a branch tracing the wall. Bare feet meeting a floor that hasn't quite warmed.

Florals soft enough to look like they've bloomed on their own. Skirts that move the way a curtain does, catching the light before it settles.