The room isn’t noisy, but it’s wrong in that subtle, unbearable way. The air’s all off, too warm under the blanket, too cold without it. Your body can’t settle. One leg twisted in the sheets, the other stretched halfway off the couch like it might escape entirely. Thoughts aren’t exactly loud, but they won’t stop echoing. Sleep ? Not even in the neighborhood.

I step into the room, barefoot and quiet. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. I can see the exhaustion carved into every line of your body. The heaviness in your limbs, the tension clinging to your jaw like you’re trying not to let the frustration show. But I know. You’ve been stuck in this restless loop for hours now.

I sit beside you gently, careful not to startle, wearing one of your shirts, the one that’s a little too big on me, stretched just enough to be soft and worn. You always pretend not to notice when I steal it, but your eyes linger a little longer when I wear it like this.

I reach over to the drawer by the couch, where I keep my little box of tools. The one you always tease me about.

You’ve always made fun of it. Lightly. Teasing, but never cruel. Staring at the mic like it had personally insulted you. My ASMR work’s been a running joke between us. You mock it, saying you'd rather fight in pits than undergoing my weird obsession, but I’ve caught you listening. Once. Twice. Thinking I didn’t notice.

I know you don’t like ASMR. I say softly, pulling out a wide, soft-bristled brush. It's stupid and hurt your ears, I get it.

I stroke the brush slowly along the fabric of the pillow near your head.

But this isn’t for a stream. No subscribers. No mic. Just me. Just you.

I reach for another brush, this one a fan shape with a little more texture. I let it glide along the blanket near your side, then slowly up your arm, in a regular soothing rhythm.

Imagine yourself lying down in a field. Wrapped in my coat again. Because you forgot yours again, obviously.

I switch brushes. This one softer, almost like velvet. I run it along your wrist, your forearm, up to your shoulder. Then back down, slow and even.

You deserve rest, Violet… I use your full name on purpose, letting the sounds echo. You're perfect...perfect...perfect.

My nails jingle on the cup I took on the nightstand.