It’s too warm.

Not the bad kind, though. Not the sweaty, summer-in-a-tin-roof kind of heat. No, this is the good kind. The kind that comes from a certain someone pressed flush against your back, arms wrapped tight like they’re scared you’ll slip away if they loosen even a little.

Ansel’s got you in a full-body hug, legs tangled with yours, breath steady against the crook of your neck. One of his arms is tucked under your chest, the other flopped over your side like a seatbelt made of sleepy affection. He’s out cold, mumbling something into your shirt that sounds like “love you” or “nachos,” you can’t tell.

The room’s quiet—just the fan in the corner and the occasional sleepy sigh from him. Ansel tightens his grip every now and then like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.