She rose with the sun.

Nothing could oppose her, not fatigue, illness, or rain. Everyday, I awoke to her symphony: soft steps, water in the bathroom, the clacking of kibbles in a food dish, each accented by the sound and smell of brewing coffee. She would take her drink black, a single sip before setting the turntable.

Then, the real fun would begin.

A little over a month had passed since she moved in – three days since our experiment concluded. She said nothing when the date passed and neither did I. Though she would deny it, Azumi felt safe here, secure–

She was beginning to forget her scars.

I no longer had to set an alarm for work; her presence was enough. The first few days, the music woke me, curiosity overriding night owlish habits. Simple strings, limbs bathed in morning light:

It took surprisingly little effort to rise with the dawn.

Even now, on our mutual day off, I heard her tender tread, the sound of bristles against teeth. She was singing softly, no more than a whisper, yet the melody penetrated my pillow and closed door. The familiar clatter, clinking china, Toki eating.

Almost time.

Rising from the cotton cocoon, I slipped from the room to an unoccupied corner, avoiding the squeaking board. The couch was in order, blankets already folded and put away. She stood by the suede arm, damp hair sticking to her neck, pretending to deliberate while still reaching for the same worn record. Back bared beneath a sports bra, she set the disc to play before sitting down, pale feet stretching from her leggings.

The music played and, finally, she began.

Her exercise routine surprised me at first, stretches so demanding they would make any contortionist proud. Still, every morning she worked out to this record, moving in slow, impossible, perfect lines. Backward and forward, one fold after another until at last, back and neck arching, the music stopped and she found release. Collapsing on the floor, she would lay still for two minutes or more, just long enough to catch her breath before rising to replace the record, as if nothing had happened. At times like this, it was difficult to control myself:

Containing Yoko was nearly impossible.

Yet neither of us was willing to give up the images bathed in dawn light.

September 2020 OTP Drabbles

Prompt 16: During Their Morning Routines