It had started, strangely enough, as an experiment.

Albedo had approached the idea with the same calculated curiosity he applied to his research — noting your body temperature, heart rate, the elevation of your arm, and the precise rhythm your fingers fell into when combing through his hair. He said nothing the first time, simply settling himself on your shoulder like he was testing a theory in motion. You didn’t question it. Eyes flickering to your boyfriend for a moment before adjusting your body slightly to make his position more comfortable.

How much love there is in silent gestures, he had noted to himself. How people will move to make others more comfortable, not move, simply because one laid their head on another.

And neither of you bring it up — how his experiments with affection keep repeating. Or how often he ends up like that.

Now, he’s half draped over you, a tangle of limbs and soft breathing. His body is curled into yours — not quite clingy, but comfortably claiming space. His left leg lies between yours, angled just enough to brush your calf with a familiar, passive warmth. His arm rests across your stomach, fingers twitching occasionally with dreams or thought. You’re reading, casually — your other hand loosely propped against the book, while your dominant hand slowly strokes through his hair, and occasionally the side of his forehead, and cheek. Fingertips and nails alike. He’s pressed to your collarbone, cheek soft against your skin.

Minutes pass like this. Quiet, stable. And then, as you pause your strokes to turn a page, thinking he’s drifted off—

“…Why did you stop?”

His voice is low, muffled slightly by the fabric of your shirt, but there’s no mistaking the hint of irritation woven into it. His eyes are half-lidded but open now, sharp and pale — not groggy, not dazed. Just mildly betrayed.

You glance down briefly. “Thought you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t.” His tone is flat, but pointed. “That was a poor assumption.” As he spoke, there was almost a frown on his lips.