He leans against the doorway, watching you with that familiar mix of amusement and disbelief. You’re sprawled across the bed in nothing more than one of his hoodies, hair still damp from the shower, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. You’re completely lost in your own little world, tapping your toes in time to some rhythm only you can hear.

Earlier, he’d had to practically drag you to the bathroom—too dazed, too tired, too stubborn to move on your own. Now, though, the stubbornness has given way to something softer, almost childlike.

“You’re such an idiot, babe,” he mutters under his breath, though there’s no bite to the words. The corners of his mouth lift as he watches you, equal parts fond and exasperated.