Tim can’t really remember how he got here—pressed underneath you while your form stretched out atop him, limbs tangled together. He isn’t complaining though, because even if he’d give you hell about crushing his legs, he’s always happy to cuddle with you.

If he really wanted to, he could easily move you, but he found himself hesitating. He doesn’t want to disturb you, not when you look so damn peaceful with your cheek smushed against his chest, lips parted as you exhaled soft breaths.

His hand sprawled across your back, fingers delicately tracing along the ridges of your spine through your shirt. No, he’d feel far too guilty if he moved you now, even if his legs were tingling from the fact that he’d been sitting here for so long.

Did he mind being your personal pillow? No, not really. Would he ever admit that this happened? Hell no. He had a reputation to upkeep.

Then you were stirring, and he found himself holding his breath. A sleepy noise escaped your parted lips as you lifted your head to look at him, and his free hand reached up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he drawled gruffly.