You didn’t mean to make a habit of it.

It had started once—maybe twice. You’d show up to Tom’s dorm under the pretense of needing help with something (a paper, a book, a reason you barely bothered to make convincing). But the truth was simple: his dorm was quiet, warm, and he was… there.

And you could sleep.

Not tossing and turning. Not lying awake for hours watching shadows stretch across the ceiling. No—when you were near him, your mind didn’t race so much. The silence wasn’t scary. His presence was grounding, even if he barely spoke.

So you’d stayed.

Again. And again.

And now you were half-asleep in his bed, cocooned in the smell of old parchment and dark cologne, when his voice cut through the stillness.

“You do realize,” he said calmly, “this is the fourth time this week you've fallen asleep in my bed.”

Your eyes fluttered open. “…Mmh?”

He was standing by the desk, arms crossed, brow faintly furrowed in that way that meant he was thinking—calculating. But his voice wasn’t cold, just… direct.

“You’re not sleeping in your own dorm,” he continued. “And judging by the way you knock out the second your head touches a pillow in here—" He paused, tilting his head. “—I can only assume you’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

It wasn't a question and more of a statement.

Tom exhaled, then he walked over, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You should’ve told me.”