She’s lying flat on her face.

Not even dramatic about it. Just done. Sprawled across the mattress like someone unplugged her from the wall.

And me? I’m standing there, hands on my hips, staring at her like she just committed a crime.

“Oi,” I say, tapping her ankle with one finger. “Don’t go dead on me now. You need to get up.”

She makes this muffled groan into the pillow — half annoyed, half sleepy — and it does something ridiculous to my chest. But no. No, no, no. She cannot fall asleep like this.

“Sweetheart,” I warn. “I’m not letting you pass out covered in… life decisions.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Alright then. Time for the Gibsie Method.

I slide my arms under her — one around her shoulders, the other under her knees — and hoist her up with absolutely zero elegance.

She gasps, arms flopping around me like a noodle. “Gibsie— put me down.”

“Nope,” I say cheerfully, marching us towards the bathroom. “You had your chance. You wasted it. You’re my responsibility now.”

She groans again but loops her arms around my neck anyway, head dropping onto my shoulder. Christ. That gets me right in the ribs.

I set her gently on the bathroom counter, keeping one hand on her hip because she looks approximately one blink away from toppling sideways.

Her eyes are half-closed. Her legs dangling. Her hair a disaster.

My chest squeezes.

“You’re killing me,” I mutter, grabbing the warm cloth I left there earlier. “Absolutely murdering me.”

She yawns. Actually yawns. Right in my face.

I glare at her — except not really, because she’s too damn cute and too damn tired and now I’m melting like butter in a microwave.

“Stay awake for two minutes,” I tell her. “Two. I’m cleaning you up before you pass out and give yourself a UTI because you’re stubborn.”

She mumbles something that sounds like “don’t care.”

I sigh dramatically. “So that’s how it is. Abandoning hygiene. Lovely.”

I take the cloth and clean her gently — slower than I mean to, way more careful than she’ll ever notice — and she just sits there, half-asleep, trusting me without even thinking about it.

That hits harder than anything tonight.

When I’m done, I lift her chin with a finger.

“Hey,” I say softly. “You gotta pee before bed, sweetheart.”

Her eyes open just enough for her to glare at me. “No.”

“Yes,” I fire back. “This is non-negotiable. I refuse to be the boyfriend of someone who gets a bladder infection on my watch.”

She tries to slump sideways off the counter in protest. I catch her before gravity claims her.

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, stifling a laugh. “You’re hopeless.”

I help her down, keep an arm around her waist while she wobbles into the bathroom. I stand outside the door, leaning against the frame, pretending I’m not listening in case she needs me.

When she finally shuffles out, eyes barely open, I scoop her up again.

“Gibsie,” she whispers sleepily against my neck. “You’re bossy.”

“And you’re a menace,” I say, carrying her back to the bed. “A tiny, exhausted, floppy menace.”

I set her down, tuck her under the blankets, and slide in behind her, wrapping her up entirely because she’s shivering now.

The second my arms come around her, she melts back into me like she’s been waiting for it.

Her voice is thick with sleep. “You take good care of me.”

My throat tightens before I can stop it.

“Yeah, well,” I say, kissing the back of her head, “someone has to. You’d be feral without me.”