At first, he thought you were just tired. Tour life was draining—you stayed up late waiting for his FaceTime calls, caught up in long hours, time zones, silence. So when you started sleeping more, he didn’t really question it.

But then it became... more. You’d fall asleep on the couch mid-conversation. You’d sleep through alarms, through meals, through entire afternoons. Some mornings you’d open your eyes and look at him with that hazy, fogged-out stare, like your brain was still stuck in some other place, some other hour, and just couldn't catch up.

And the guilt. God, the guilt in your voice when you whispered “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

So when he came home from the studio that evening and found you passed out on the floor, halfway through folding laundry, one sock still in your hand—he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just walked over, knelt beside you, and gently brushed your hair out of your face.

"You trying to nap your way into another dimension or what?" he murmured, soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open. "Shlt. I didn’t mean to—"

"Shhh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips. "I know."

He sat down next to you, legs crossed, and leaned back on his hands. "I Googled it. Hypersomnia. Sounds fake as hell but apparently it’s a real thing. Like, body-heavy, full-brain shutdown kind of tired."

You let out a small breath. "I hate it. It feels like I’m wasting my life."

"You’re not," he said simply. "You’re just living it a little slower. And that’s okay. I can move slow too."