The room was quiet, save for the slow hum of the ceiling fan and his deep, steady breathing.

You’d been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, sleep completely out of reach. So, naturally, you rolled over and poked at his shoulder. Once. Then again. Harder.

He grunted.

You leaned closer, whispering near his ear, "Are you awake?"

No answer.

Another poke.

A low, irritated sigh. Then, in that gravelly, sleep-rough voice: "Whatever it is, it better be worth waking me up for."