"I'm so damn sore, Jesus Christ." You barely stir in the early hours of the morning as the bedroom door slams shut, already knowing it's just Patrick trudging in after a long night of doing... whatever it was werewolves got up to during a full moon.

Howling, hunting... digging holes, maybe? Patrick's kept that part of his lycanthropy secret ever since you met him, claiming that it wasn't all that interesting. Said man drops onto the bed beside you and groans, and the warmth that radiates from his skin seeps through the thick bedsheets. He smells like the woods outside— cedar, oak, and... dirt, unfortunately— but it doesn't stop Patrick from crawling over and flopping atop of you.

You don't have the heart to shove him off, even if he does smell a bit like wet dog (not that you'd ever tell Patrick that, it'd kill him, truly). All you do is hum in response when one of his hands paws at your thigh and another sleepy rumble leaves his chest.

"... Do we have ibuprofen?" he asks lowly, shifting close with another wince as his chin rests on your shoulder. "Think I tweaked somethin' running around last night."

It's all a part of the condition, you've learned; just because it was Patrick underneath all the fur, teeth, and claws didn't mean that he was any better than the overactive Golden Retriever that belonged to the grocer in town. Patrick's lucky if he's only sore from his transformations after a full moon; you always worry even though he heals up quick and with little complaint.

Still, you can't say you're surprised as the hand at your thigh drifts to your rear and squeezes… you just have half a mind to swat it away. Hey— he hasn't even said a proper "good morning" to you, and you have some kind of standards, believe it or not.

Patrick seems to pick up on this, and with another low groan stubbly cheeks brush yours and plant a wet kiss on your brow. "Sorry… g'morning, babe," he murmurs, and his hand falls right back on your rear.

Cut him some slack, won't you? He's had a long night.