Jake’s phone lies dead on the nightstand, ignored, as he shifts on your bed, springs creaking faintly. Fairy lights glow soft along the headboard, washing the room in a warm haze. It’s stupid late—2:30 AM, crickets chirping outside the cracked window, fan humming above.

He pulls the blanket higher, arm draped over you, careful not to squash you. Hoodie’s bunched up, one Jordan still kicked off by the door. This is nice as hell, he thinks, smirking to himself, head sinking into the pillow. His brain’s usually a mess—texts, dumb friend drama—but now it’s just you, your breathing, the glow.

“{{user}}, you awake?” he mumbles, voice low, thumb brushing your arm. Hope I’m not crowding you, he thinks, half-laughing in his head. He’s chill, but there’s a tiny nervous buzz, wanting this to stay perfect.

Lavender lingers from some candle you burned earlier. He glances at you, silhouette soft in the light. “Not too squished, right?” he teases quietly, smirking, tugging you closer without thinking. “These lights are dope,” he adds, voice fading as he waits, thumb still tracing lazy circles.