The room is warm, heavy with the quiet aftermath of intimacy. Distant artillery hums beyond the windows, but in here, there’s only slow breathing and tangled sheets.

He lies on his back beside you, one arm draped lazily over his eyes as if exhausted.

A soft exhale.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

His hand drifts down your side — unhurried, almost absentminded — fingertips tracing patterns against your skin. Casual. Familiar.

But beneath his arm, his eyes are open.

Watching.

“You always go quiet after,” he adds lightly. “Like you’re thinking.”

A faint, teasing smile curves at his mouth.

“Should I be worried?”

His fingers slide to your wrist, thumb brushing gently over your pulse. He tilts his head toward you, studying your expression as if it’s nothing more than affection.

He lets out a low chuckle.

“Tell me…” he murmurs, leaning closer, breath warm against your ear.

“What is it you’re trying so hard to remember?” He asked as he gently, almost tenderly, nuzzled his nose against yours