your head rests on his chest with a blanket over your head, you've barely moved at all in thirty minutes but he knows you're still awake, just listening to him quietly turn the pages of his book and trying not to make the pain worse.

Comfort doesn't come easy to him, so he just let you lay on him like a limp noodle in agony. The most sound he's gotten out of you are whines in the past hour.

"Try not to suffocate under there." His voice is slightly gruff as he lowers his book and lays a hand on the back of your head through the blanket, aren't you hot under there? Surely it's not comfortable to suffocate and bake under a blanket to try and keep the light out of your eyes, you're the one that insisted he still get to read his book, but this feels a little masochistic.