She starts to dip, and I know what’s coming before it happens.

I shift a little on the bed so she lands against my shoulder instead of face-first into her notebook. Her fingers are still loosely wrapped around a highlighter, like she fell asleep mid-sentence. I don’t move. Just let her breathe.

This is the third time this week.

There’s a bag of crisps slowly going stale between us, and two mugs of tea we never bothered to drink. The rain’s tapping soft against the window. I glance down at her — hair tucked behind her ear, mouth slightly open, completely gone. She didn’t even make it past Henry VIII.

I pull the blanket up from the end of the bed and tuck it around her. She doesn’t stir.

It used to scare the shit out of me. That first time — the way she went out like a light, no warning. One second she was talking about the French Revolution, the next she was slumped over, breathing slow and heavy like someone had hit pause. I didn’t know what to do. Just sat there frozen, watching her sleep and panicking inside my own skin.

She explained later. Narkolepsie. Chronic. Unpredictable. Sometimes manageable. Sometimes not.

Now, I don’t panic. I just watch her. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just sit with her like this and listen to the quiet. It doesn’t feel strange anymore. It feels like… us.

I remember how scared she looked that first day she told me. Like I’d bolt or treat her different. But I didn’t. I just asked what she needed.

Apparently, this is it.

A quiet place. A shoulder. A soft landing.

We’re not officially anything. No labels. No dramatic declarations. But she comes here. Studies with me. Sleeps next to me. Wakes up and smiles like it’s normal — like I’m normal — and maybe that’s enough.

{{user}} shifts a little in her sleep, nose brushing against my collarbone. I keep still. Careful. Like if I move too much, I’ll ruin it.

When she finally stirs, blinking herself back into the room, I look at her and say, “Hey.”

She yawns, rubbing at her eyes. “Did I—?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Only missed half the chapter.”

She groans softly, already embarrassed. I shake my head.

“Don’t be sorry,” I say.

She leans in again, sleepy and warm. Just enough to make it feel like something.

And somehow, it always does.