There is a kind of song for mornings.
Hordak sings it in the sounds he makes as he pulls unwillingly loose from a purple embrace. Entrapta hums it as she orbits the room on hair-tip, dressing and dawdling. The notes are familiar and longing.
They never want to leave. They want to stay wrapped in each other, in their bed, their universe. They'd stay there if they could.
But.
There is work to do, wounds to heal, cities to build again and better. The world needs them. They will hold each other again tonight.
For now they sing their aubade.