The soft creak of wood and the distant murmur of the city outside your window barely register through the haze of your waking. It’s still dark out—early, or maybe very late—but the low glow of the streetlamp outside spills in just enough to see him.

Racetrack Higgins. Fast talker, smart mouth, always with a cigarette between his fingers and a wisecrack on his tongue. And now?

Slumped in the old chair beside your bed, head tipped back against the wall, mouth parted just slightly as he sleeps. His coat’s draped over your blanket, like he thought you might get cold. His hat’s on the floor where it must’ve slipped from his fingers.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. That much is obvious. One hand is still loosely curled near yours on the mattress, like he’d been holding it—just in case you needed someone to hold on to.

He’d said he was only gonna sit with you till you dozed off. “Just makin’ sure you ain’t alone, sweetheart. You sleep better that way, don’t ya?”

And now here he is, dead asleep in that rickety chair, breathing soft and slow, keeping watch even in his dreams.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his knuckles, and he stirs a little, brow twitching.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You stayed.”

Even half-asleep, he smirks.

“Course I did,” he mumbles. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘less you tell me to.”