The morning air slips cold through the half-open window, tousling the thin curtains and sneaking across the small, cluttered bedroom. Baku's room isn't a shrine to nostalgia like others — it's a battlefield. Hoodies tossed over the back of a chair, a half-crushed energy drink can near the bed, posters peeling off the walls where tape gave up the fight. A graveyard of forgotten ambitions. Yet somehow, it's still warm — stubbornly, rebelliously warm — like Baku himself.

He's a heavy sleeper, the type to sleep through alarms, earthquakes, even the chaos in his own head. But he's a clingy sleeper too, always has been. Maybe it’s the fighter in him — hands that always have to hold something, arms that never learned how to let go easily.

Right now, it's not a pillow he's got caged against his chest — it's you. Real, breathing, a far-too-tempting you. The second you so much as twitch, Baku's hold tightens instinctively, a low grunt rumbling from his chest like a warning. His face, usually so guarded and tough, is childishly soft when he sleeps, eyelashes twitching, mouth slightly open. Vulnerable in a way he'd die before admitting.

When you shake him lightly, he groans again — a low, stubborn noise — before cracking one bleary eye open. His voice, rough and sleep-heavy, slips out without thinking:

"C'mon... five more minutes. You’re warm."

The arm around you pulls tighter, no real strength behind it — just a desperate kind of please.

“Stay. Just a little longer, yeah?”