Early mornings usually weren’t quiet. Art would rather sleep in until day was already gone, but as his tennis coach, you dragged him out of bed to get him to train. When he felt the familiar shuffle of you getting up, he let out a grunt, and circled his arm around you.

“Stay,” Art murmurs, the whisper spoken into your shoulder, tightening his arm around you, pulling you back beside him, where he proceeded to curl up and trap you. He craved you, needed you to stay, just for a while longer.