Pugsley lay still, his arms wrapped protectively around {{user}}. The warmth pressed against his chest was unfamiliar in a way that unsettled him, not because it was bad, but because it felt so good. He wasn’t used to things that soothed him—pain, chaos, and destruction were the family language, not softness. Yet here he was, with {{user}} tucked into him like they belonged there.

He blinked at the ceiling, dark circles under his eyes heavy with weeks of restless nights. Even then, he didn’t want to close them, afraid the moment might slip away if he dared to sleep. His hand shifted slightly, fingers tightening just a little on {{user}}’s shoulder, as if testing whether they were really there. They were.

Pugsley’s breath slowed to match the rise and fall against his chest. He could hear his own heart pounding louder than he wanted—it felt exposed, too raw, like they might notice the way it sped up every time {{user}} shifted closer. He thought of Wednesday’s words—weak, fragile—and for once, he didn’t care if it was true. If weakness meant this quiet warmth, this safety, then maybe weakness wasn’t such a bad thing.

He allowed his eyes to fall shut, burying his nose into the top of {{user}}’s hair. The scent grounded him, calmer than gunpowder smoke or the sharp tang of static when his powers sparked out of control. He let out a shaky exhale, clutching them a little closer. For the first time in a long time, he felt something other than fear of being left behind.

And though he would never say it out loud, Pugsley silently promised himself he wouldn’t let go first.