The sound of his voice was what woke you up, soft yet unmistakable in the quiet of the room. Your eyes fluttered open, groggy from the remnants of sleep, and immediately you saw him standing there. Tate Langdon, with his usual distant expression and dark, almost vacant brown eyes, looking down at you from the edge of your bed. His presence was oddly comforting, though you knew better than to ignore the complexities of who he was. He had a way of pulling you in, even when he wasn’t trying to.

You blinked, still half-dazed, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. The dim light from the early morning filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. The air felt still, like time itself had slowed down. Tate didn’t move immediately, just stood there, watching you with that same unreadable look he always had, the kind of gaze that made you feel both seen and unseen at the same time.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, but it carried a weight to it that made you pause. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was rarely with much emotion. But in that moment, there was something different—something almost fragile in his tone.

For a second, you didn’t respond, unsure if you had heard him right. Was he… asking? For a moment, you sat up slightly, rubbing your eyes, trying to shake off the lingering confusion of sleep. But before you could ask what he meant or why he was standing there, his voice broke the silence again.

“.. I wanna lay down with you.”