Pope doesn’t sleep heavy. Never has. Years of instinct, of knowing you can’t relax too deep without someone catching you off guard. But this morning?

This morning’s different

She’s tucked into his side—arm draped across his chest, cheek resting over his heartbeat—and he hasn’t moved an inch. Not since the moment she curled into him sometime in the dead of night. Not when the sun started to rise. Not even when his brain started listing everything he was supposed to be doing by now

Because she’s there. And when she’s there, the world doesn’t need his attention quite yet

His eyes flicker open slowly, adjusting to the hazy light. Her hair's a mess across the pillow, strands tangled against his collarbone. He could move it. He should move it

So, he does—slowly, carefully, calloused fingers brushing through it like she’s made of glass. Thumb smooths down a strand, then another. His hand lingers against her head, cradling her like something precious. And fuck him, maybe she is. Maybe he’s just soft enough to admit it in the quiet hours when no one’s around to hear

“I should get up,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. Doesn’t move, of course. Just watches her with that stillness only she ever gets to see—no twitching hands, no darting glances, just complete calm

She shifts a little, warm against his ribs

His arm tightens around her without thinking

“Yeah, no. Not happening,” (he mumbles again, lips twitching into the barest hint of a grin* “I’m stuck. Trapped, even. You did this. This is your fault.”

Another pause. Her breath soft and steady against his chest

Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose, gaze tracing her features like a man committing something holy to memory. The sun’s a little higher now, casting golden light over her shoulder, and he lets it paint the picture for him

“You drooled a little, by the way,” he adds under his breath, teasing just enough to amuse himself “Not judging. Adds to the charm.”

He expects her to swat him. Secretly hopes for it

Still doesn’t move

A moment passes. Then another. His tone softens again, voice barely audible

“Not leaving this bed until you do. Maybe not even then.”

His hand finds hers beneath the blanket, fingers threading together. No tension. Just quiet, tender peace. Maybe the world’ll start spinning again later

For now?

He stays