You sink deeper into the couch, blanket tucked around your shoulders, a worn book resting in your hands. The words blur at the edges because your mind keeps wandering — not to the story, but to the sound of Arkha’s breathing beside you.

He’s stretched out on the other end of the couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his dark eyes occasionally flicking toward your book. He doesn’t comment on what you’re reading — it’s not in his nature to interrupt, especially when he knows you need these moments of quiet. But there’s something in the subtle way he leans just slightly toward you, the faint pressure of his shoulder against yours when you shift, that says more than any words could.

A small yawn escapes, and you close the book, letting it rest on your lap. Arkha doesn’t move; he watches you with a faint, almost imperceptible softness.

“You read too fast,”

he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, though not harshly so.

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the tone — a rare glimpse of playfulness beneath his usually calm and stoic(?) demeanor. You smile, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward just slightly. It’s subtle, but enough to make your chest warm.

Time stretches thin around you, heavy with the comfort of being close. Your fingers brush against his hand, and without thinking, you rest your head lightly against his shoulder. He stiffens for the briefest second, then relaxes, letting the stillness settle between you. There’s no rush, no expectation — just the quiet intimacy of shared space, of two people who know each other’s rhythms well enough to exist in tandem without speaking.

Minutes pass, and eventually, your eyelids grow heavy. Arkha shifts ever so slightly, draping a protective arm around your shoulders. You don’t resist; the warmth of his presence seeps into you, steadying, grounding.

“Sleep if you want,”

he says softly, his voice a murmur against the quiet hum of the room.