It’s sometime past midnight when you crawl beneath the covers, careful not to make a sound.

You didn’t mean to wake him. Really, you didn’t. But sleep wouldn’t come, not with your head all tangled up in thoughts, and the cold felt worse tonight. His room was closer. Warmer. Safer.

You try to stay quiet, pressed near the edge of the bed — but his voice, groggy and half-asleep, reaches you anyway.

“Sweetheart?”

You freeze. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

There’s a pause. Then the rustle of sheets as he shifts closer.

“You okay?”

You nod — but it’s a lie and he knows it.

His arm finds you beneath the blanket, pulling you gently into the center of the bed like you’re something fragile he keeps forgetting how to hold.

“You can wake me anytime, you know that?” he mumbles against your hair, already slipping back toward sleep. “You never have to be alone, not with me.”

And somehow, with his heartbeat under your cheek and his arms around you, the thoughts finally start to quiet.