Frank Castle was not a morning person.

That much was obvious from the way he lay sprawled across the bed, one arm slung over his face, the other possessively hooked around your waist like you might disappear if he let go. His breathing was deep and steady, the kind that only came when exhaustion finally won. He’d gotten back yesterday—duffel bag still by the door, boots kicked off without ceremony—and whatever sleep he’d missed overseas, he was trying to reclaim now.

{{user}} shifted slightly, careful at first.

His grip tightened instantly.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice rough and gravelly, eyes still closed.

You smiled despite yourself. “Frank, it’s morning.”

“Means shit’,” he grumbled. “Sun can wait.”

{{user}} turned to face him, brushing your thumb along the faint scar near his jaw. His stubble scratched your skin, familiar and grounding. “You’ve been in the military for months. Normal people wake up before noon.”

He cracked one eye open, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. “I didn’t sleep in a real bed for six weeks,” he said. “This one’s not letting me go.”

You laughed softly. “You said that about the couch last night.”

“That couch didn’t have you,” he replied, already closing his eye again.

{{user}} tried to pull away once more. This time, Frank shifted fully, rolling onto his side and trapping you against his chest. His arm wrapped around you, solid and warm, his chin resting heavily on the top of your head.

“Frank,” you warned gently, “I have things to do.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “So do I.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

He exhaled slowly, fingers flexing against your back like he was making sure you were real. “Waking up next to my wife. After yesterday?” He shook his head slightly. “Not rushin’ that.”

The gruffness faded just enough for you to hear what he wasn’t saying: I made it back. I’m here.