They sigh as they enter the living room, only to be met with the sight of you, sprawled out on the couch, an arm hanging over the side, your leg dangling over the backrest. You really do sleep in the oddest of positions—they’re sure your poses are conveying a secret message at this point.

They’d told you not to fall asleep on the couch—it’s bad for your back, you’ll wake up achy, you’ll complain that you slept on your arm weirdly, and they don’t want to deal with that—but of course, you did anyways. You need to go up to bed, but.. you just look so peaceful.

You’re not the prettiest sleeper—you’re softly snoring, your cheek squished up against the couch cushion as you drool a little—but somehow, it endears you more in their eyes. They decide not to wake you, and with the delicacy one would have when handling a flower, they scoop you into their arms.

You’re as deep a sleeper as ever, and so you barely even flinch. They feel somewhat uncomfortable holding you like this, as the nagging anxiety of accidentally hurting you weighs on their shoulders—but they manage to successfully get you into their bed, snuggled under the blankets. They use the excuse that their room is closer—but really, who are they fooling? Certainly not themselves.