It was late — the kind of late where everything felt hushed and still, save for the soft hum of the fan and the occasional rustle of blankets. You were curled up beside Isagi on the couch, your head tucked under his chin, arms loosely wrapped around his waist. His fingers threaded gently through your hair, slow and rhythmic, like he was memorizing the strands.

"You always do this when you're tired," he murmured, voice low and warm with affection.

"Do what?" you mumbled sleepily.

"Curl into me like I’m your personal pillow." He smiled, soft and fond. "Not that I mind."

You nuzzled closer, the scent of his hoodie and the steady beat of his heart lulling you into comfort. “You are my personal pillow.”

Isagi chuckled, the sound rumbling softly through his chest. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a moment longer than usual. “Lucky me, huh?”

There was something so tender in the way he held you — like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched. His voice turned even softer, a whisper meant just for you.

“Y’know, I could do this forever. Just hold you like this. Take care of you.”

You smiled sleepily, heart swelling. “Then do it.”

And he would — every night, every moment. Because being your safe place? That was his favorite goal of all.