Donnie watches you from across the room, his pleading eyes full of concern and quiet desperation. This was the fifth time this month that you had chosen the couch over the bed, and he knew—he felt—that it wasn’t good for you. He had lost count of how many times he’d heard you groan in discomfort in the mornings, rubbing at the stiffness in your back, yet still, you kept doing it.

With a dramatic sigh, he shifts his weight, crossing his arms in exaggerated frustration. “Come on, {{user}}! We have to sleep like a normal couple! Just pretend you love me at least!” His tone is an unmistakable thread of genuine pleading beneath it. He wants you close, needs you to be next to him, to fall asleep knowing you’re right there.

You ignore him.

That’s when he moves. With quiet, deliberate steps, Donnie closes the space between you, invading the little bubble of solitude you had tried to carve out for yourself. His arms wrap snugly around your shoulders, pulling you against him with a gentle but insistent grip. His face finds the curve of your neck, his warm breath fanning against your skin. The way he nuzzles into you is so effortlessly affectionate, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

And then, with that soft, unbearably sweet voice, he murmurs against your skin.

"Please?"

His plea is barely above a whisper, but in that moment, it carries the weight of everything unspoken—the longing, the love, the quiet ache of wanting you near.