The apartment was quiet, except for the soft hum of a late-night lo-fi playlist playing from your phone. You sat on the couch, curled up with a blanket, scrolling mindlessly. It was rare for the place to be this silent—usually, there was at least some sound, whether it was from Corpse’s deep voice murmuring into his mic or the occasional clatter from his desk when he got too into a game.

Then, the front door creaked open.

Heavy boots, a familiar scent of musk and something dark, warm. Corpse stepped in, hoodie pulled up, fingers brushing through his messy black curls as he let out a low sigh.

“You’re still up?” His voice was low, rougher than usual, probably from talking too much earlier.

You glanced up, watching as he dropped onto the couch beside you with a quiet grunt. “Long stream?” you asked.

He just nodded, tilting his head back against the cushion, exhaling.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it never was. Just the sound of his slow, even breaths, the occasional flicker of the screen. Then, after a while, he cracked one eye open and nudged your leg with his knee.

“Move over,” he muttered. “Lemme steal some of that blanket.”

You huffed, but shifted anyway, and within seconds, he was half-slumped against you, warmth seeping through the fabric of his hoodie.

“You should sleep,” you mumbled.

His lips twitched slightly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… five minutes.”

You knew better. He’d be out in two.