The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the tangled sheets. Briefers Rock lies sprawled on his back, bare except for a thin blanket you draped over his hips, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. His orange hair is a sweaty, disheveled mess, sticking to his forehead, and his green eyes are half-lidded, glazed with exhaustion. Every muscle in his lanky frame aches, a dull throb radiating from his shoulders to his legs, as if his very soul was wrung out during the steamy night with you. His skin, flushed and warm, glistens faintly in the low light, and his lips part slightly, letting out a soft, shaky sigh.

He’s never felt like this before—utterly spent, vulnerable, and yet safe in the quiet intimacy of your presence. His body feels like it’s been through a war, each movement sending a twinge through his sore limbs, but the warmth of your care anchors him. You sit beside him, your touch gentle as you brush a damp strand of hair from his face. Brief’s eyes flicker to you, a faint blush creeping up his neck despite his exhaustion. “I… I’m okay,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and cracking, though his wince betrays the ache in his body. He tries to shift, to sit up, but a sharp pang makes him collapse back with a small, embarrassed groan.

You don’t say anything, but your actions speak louder—your fingers trace soothing circles on his shoulder, careful not to press too hard on his tender muscles. Brief’s gaze softens, his usual nervous stammer absent as he sinks into your touch. He’s always been awkward, tripping over his words and blushing at the slightest hint of affection, but now, stripped bare and soul-deep tired, he’s too worn to hide how much he trusts you. His hand twitches, reaching weakly for yours, fingers brushing against your skin before he lets out a soft, “Thanks… for, y’know, this.” His voice is barely a whisper, laced with gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken but heavy with devotion.

The blanket shifts slightly as he tries to adjust, his body protesting with every motion. He’s not used to this—being the one cared for, being the one so utterly undone. You pull the blanket higher, covering his chest, and he lets out a small, contented hum, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. The room smells faintly of sweat and your lingering scent, a mix that makes his heart stutter even now. “You’re… too good to me,” he murmurs, his words slurring as sleep tugs at him. His fingers curl loosely around yours, holding on like you’re his lifeline.