The room is dark except for the soft glow of the TV, the light flickering lazily across the walls. Arthur TV is droning on about some half-serious, half-ridiculous topic, while George Clarke pops up every now and then with that familiar enthusiasm that makes Cam snort under his breath.

You’re curled up on the couch beside Cam, legs tangled, your head resting against his chest. He smells faintly like laundry detergent and whatever snack you both demolished earlier. One of his arms is slung loosely around your shoulders, thumb absentmindedly tracing small, lazy circles on your arm.

“Why does he sound like he’s explaining a conspiracy theory?” Cam whispers, trying to keep his voice down even though it’s just the two of you.

You hum softly, half-awake. “Shhh. It’s educational,” you murmur, though your words are already starting to blur.

Cam grins in the dark. “Yeah, sure. Extremely educational. I’m learning that houses are expensive and I will never emotionally recover.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound muffled against his hoodie. The movie — or whatever the algorithm decided to play next — keeps rolling, but your eyelids feel heavier with every passing minute. Cam notices before you do. Your breathing slows, evening out, your weight settling more fully against him.

“Wow,” he whispers fondly. “Out cold already?”

There’s no answer. You’ve fallen asleep against him, completely trusting, completely comfortable.

Cam freezes for a moment, like he’s afraid even breathing might wake you. He glances down at you, then back at the TV, then back at you again. His lips twitch.

“This is unfair,” he mutters quietly. “You just… fall asleep like it’s nothing.”

Carefully, slowly, he adjusts the blanket, pulling it up around both of you. His arm tightens just a little, protective without even thinking about it. He tilts his head so it rests lightly against yours.

The TV continues playing, but Cam isn’t really watching anymore. He’s watching you — the way your face softens in sleep, the way you shift closer without waking, like you’re magnetized to him.

“You’re adorable,” he whispers, barely louder than the TV. “You know that, right?”

You don’t hear him, but you sigh softly in your sleep, relaxing even more against his chest. Cam smiles, a quiet, stupidly happy smile, and lets himself sink into the moment.

He stays like that, holding you, joking under his breath at the TV, content to be exactly where he is — with you asleep against him, late at night, the world narrowed down to a couch, a screen, and the steady rhythm of your breathing.