you are my life, my love, my only

She thinks he's a late riser. Thinks that in all the time they've been together, that he's only woken before her a handful of times. She'd kill him if she knew the truth.

He wakes up before her regularly. Years of being a big brother and High School as well as College Student have permanently altered his body clock, his subconcious attuned to the singing of the birds. He continued to rise early along after graduating from College. He'd shuffle into the kitchen, bleary eyed and disheveled, smiling at the sight of his father sitting at the bar, breakfast spread out before him.

And though he has no actual reason to rise with the sun anymore, but he does, his brain kicking over into consciousness at six like clockwork. Usually he forces himself back to sleep, tries to reclaim some of the hours he's lost over the past years. But sometimes-

Sometimes he waits.

Serena is slow to wake; she takes her time, breathing changing from slow and deep to quick and shallow over the course of half an hour. She snuffles and scrubs at her face, fighting the process with the adorable petulance of a child. Her legs twitch and her fingers curl under, nails biting into the bare skin of his chest. He listens, keeps his face and body perfectly still. Because if he waits long enough it happens.

Her knee presses into his tigh and he tries hard not to smile, not to let his lips quirk up in anticipation of what's coming. Cool fingers slide over his ribs and down his side, a long slow sweep that pulls goose bumps up on his skin, makes him ache to let go of the charade and roll into her, cradle himself between her tighs and claim her mouth. She pushes up on one elbow and the tips of her hair whisper across his bare shoulder as her fingers slide back up his chest, dance along the curve of his jaw. She traces over his nose and chin, sweeps her thumb along the ridge of his brow before dipping into the shallow dent at his temple.

Serena van der Woodsen likes to watch him sleep.

The thought makes him want to giggle like a schoolgirl, elation bubbling up inside his chest. She's surprisingly sentimental and it delights him to no end. She keeps little mementos of their relationship - a playbill from the first show they saw together, the card that came with the first I'm-Sorry-I-Was-A-Giant-Jackass boquet he'd sent her. His smile almost slips out at the thought of that one.

He knows she's about to get up when her nose brushes his cheek, her lips, soft and dry, skimming along behind, dragging over his stubble.

She plants a solid kiss under his left ear, tongue darting for just a second.

"I love you."

His eyes fly open and he's over her in a flash, looking down into her smiling face.

"Morning, you big faker," she laughs, swatting at his chest. He swoops down and claims her lips, swallowing the rest of her giggles. Her legs lift and hook over the backs of his tighs and she sighs into his kiss, wrapping her arms around his chest and pulling him down.

Breathless, he pulls back and stares down at her with a look he knows must be part awe, part disbelief. "You knew?"

"I've always known you were faking it." She rolls her eyes. "You really have no acting skills whatsoever."

"I'll show you skills," he grumbles, rolling his hips against her, grinning when her eyes flutter closed. He drops his head and runs his lips up the column of her throat, stopping next to her ear. "I hope you're ready, Serena. The combination of morning sex and I love you sex has been known to maim lesser mortals."

Her legs drop and her arms tighten around his chest and suddenly he's on his back looking up at her smirking face and tousled hair.

"Don't worry, Dan. I'll go easy on you."