Last night had been so peaceful. Bobby had turned up at your door just after midnight, huddled up in his big scarf and jacket, curls damp and soggy and flattened. And you’d let him in, obviously, and dried his hair with a towel while he sat in his boxers on your bedroom floor.

And you’d fallen asleep, no sex, tangled up together, limbs interlinked, faces so close that he could feel your little sniffly snores as you drifted off against his skin. Intimate. Loving. Soft.

Bob wasn’t used to that.

And you weren’t used to waking up to an empty bed, the covers stolen off of you, the curtains wide open, and the busy sounds of the New York streets streaming in through the open window.

Bobby didn’t seem to flinch at all as you approached him from behind, snaking the blanket back from off his shoulders and wrapping them around your own, slinging your arms around his shoulders instead as you peered over his frame to see the scrap paper laid out on your vanity.

He’s got a guitar on his knee and his scratchy handwriting is scrawled across the pages, and his playing gradually stop as his voice comes out as a grumble when your lips press against his hair.

“You’re meant to be sleepin’, not botherin’ me…”