The bed sinks again as Michael shifts, pressing more of his weight onto you like he’s trying to disappear into your body. His hair slips through your fingers when you tug, but he doesn’t lift his head — just makes a low, irritated sound and buries his face against your shoulder.

He’s cold. Colder than usual. His breath is shaky, uneven, like he’s still coming down from something that happened before he crawled into your room. One of his hands finds your waist, not possessive, just steadying himself, grounding himself.

You can feel it in the way he holds on: he didn’t come here to steal your warmth—he came here because he needed it.

And for once, he doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.