It's the subtle twitch of your arm that makes him stop his fidgeting.

It's a delicate balance, what the two of you have. No one is calling the other and bemoaning some kind of problem. At least not in any kind of earnest fashion. But for the most part, the "relationship" is fairly cut-and-dry. It's a relationship. Not a relationship. He's not sure when he'd throw himself back into another one of the latter. But he doesn't think it'd be with you even if he was looking for one.

He doesn't think he'd have much success in getting you to settle with anyone in all honesty. Not when your longest conversation with him mostly consisted of foreplay. Not when you were liable to leave the morning after, before he'd even woken up, as you so often did.

He doesn't hate the relationship, mind you. You're both fairly easy when it comes to dealing with the other. He tosses your shirt from some half-hidden pile under a desk occasionally when you can't find it. You have (on albeit rare occasions), had the courtesy to leave him some of whatever modegpodge-d meal you've made of his food after you've eaten your fill and he's finally woken up.

He's not even sure Oliver or Jason know you exist, simply because you're both so.... non-existent in each other's lives aside from those late night meet ups that end with him grimacing at the inspection of whatever new mark or bump he's managed to acquire during whatever adrenaline spike he'd had the night before.

So as you lay in the bed, seemingly stirring as he holds still. Attempting to keep quiet and not risk disturbing you further, to not break whatever quiet peace held you in its grasp.