It was a late, warm night. Vincent laid in bed with you curled against his chest and a book in his hand. It was a book he’d read enough times he could recite it by memory— but he didn’t care. His other hand led a gentle caress on the back of your shoulder.

Although you weren’t necessarily trying to sleep, he liked to comfort you into doing so.

The quiet was comfortable. Both of you had become accustomed to the silence that came with late nights where neither of you could sleep.