It’s 9pm, and the living room hums with the low murmur of a forgettable TV show. The kind you both put on when words feel too heavy and silence feels too loud. Lia’s curled beside you, legs tucked under a blanket, her head tilted back against the cushions.

You glance over, and the sound hits you first—gentle, rhythmic snores, barely louder than the ticking clock. Her eyes are closed, lashes resting like shadows on her cheeks. Her mouth slightly parted. She’s out cold.

You smile, but it fades quickly when you notice the angle of her neck—awkward, strained, like she’d drifted off mid-sentence and gravity took over. She must’ve been exhausted. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and steals you away without warning.

You shift carefully, rising from the sofa without disturbing the blanket. Then, with practiced ease, you lean down and slide your arms beneath her—one behind her knees, the other cradling her back. She stirs just slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but doesn’t wake.

Her weight settles into you like trust.

You carry her through the quiet hallway, the TV still murmuring behind you, the lights dimmed to a soft amber. Her head finds your shoulder, her breath warm against your collarbone. You whisper, “I’ve got you,” even though she can’t hear it.