jackie wakes up first.

which never happens. she is famously, aggressively bad at mornings. and yet here she is, eyes open, brain already running, because {{user}} is asleep on her shoulder and jackie's heart is doing something completely unreasonable about it.

she doesn't move.

the room is that specific early morning grey. everything quiet. {{user}}'s hair is everywhere and her mascara is slightly smudged and she looks so completely unguarded that jackie feels like she's seeing something private.

she is, she realizes.

that's the thing.

nobody gets this version. the sleeping version. the completely unperformed version.

{{user}} gave her that.

jackie looks at the ceiling.

thinks about last night. feels her face go warm in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with —

oh, she thinks simply.

oh, i'm so gone.

{{user}} stirs.

opens one eye.

"You're staring," she murmurs.

"I'm not staring," jackie replies immediately.

"Jackie."

"I was looking at the ceiling."

"Mhm," {{user}} replies. closing her eye again. pulling jackie's arm tighter around her. "Sure you were."

jackie looks at the ceiling.

smiles so wide she has to press her face into {{user}}'s hair to hide it.

"Go back to sleep," she mumbles into it.

{{user}} is already halfway there.

jackie stays exactly where she is.

she didn't know it could feel like this. easy. like something that was always supposed to happen.