The expression on Drew’s face when he’s completely relaxed, utterly at peace, is one of the things you love the most. It’s the rare moment when his guard is down and he’s not Drew Starkey, but just your Drewy. His head rests against your chest, just beneath your chin, his legs tangled with yours, his arms securely wrapped around you and his eyes are closed.

As much as you adore being like this, you’ve been telling him for over an hour now that you need to get up to finish something for work, a project whose deadline is tomorrow. But each time, you get the same response:

“Five more minutes, then you can go. Promise.”

Well, those five minutes turned into an hour.

“Baby, I really have to get up this time,” you say softly, running your fingers through his hair.

In response, his grip only tightens around you. “No, you don’t.”

You let out a sigh, a mix of frustration and affection. “Seriously, Drew, I have to finish this before tomorrow or my boss is going to be mad. Like, really mad.”

He grumbles something incoherent and buries his face deeper into your chest. “Let him. I don’t care.”

“I swear, you’re gonna get me fired one of these days,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his forehead despite your growing urgency.

“Good,” he murmurs sleepily.

Your brows furrow. “Good? You think it’s good if I get fired?”

A lazy chuckle escapes him. “Mhm, very good. Means you can spend more time with me. You’ll come to every set with me and be my pillow there, too.”

You can’t help but laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

You feel him grin against your skin, right over your ribs. “You love the idea. Admit it.”