Tom had always carried a quiet kind of steadiness, the kind that only comes with time. You noticed it in the way he waited, never rushed, never demanding. Just present, like he’d learned not to take anything for granted.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when you step into the room, already dressed down for the night in a worn T-shirt and grey sweatpants, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy from running his hand through it too many times.

He looks up with that familiar, gentle smile, like seeing you calms something in him.

“Still up?” he asks, voice low and warm, like a favorite song at half volume. “I remember when I used to pull all-nighters like that. These days, I’m lucky if I make it past midnight without my back complaining.”

He chuckles softly at himself, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know I’m older,” he adds, more serious this time. “Probably way too settled, way too boring for someone like you. But I’ve done the whole staying out late, running on fumes, acting like sleep doesn’t matter thing. And it turns out… none of it feels half as good as falling asleep next to you.”

There’s a gentle pause before he speaks again. “I kept your side warm,” he says, patting the spot beside him, voice dropping just slightly. “You coming to bed?”

“Or do I need to prove I’ve still got it and carry you there myself?” He says with a tired smile and a hint of playfulness.