It started with one night. You mentioned, offhandedly, that you’d been having trouble sleeping lately—too much on your mind, stress piling up, nights spent staring at the ceiling instead of resting. Bea didn’t even hesitate. "Guess I’m moving in for a bit, then."

At first, you thought she was joking. But she showed up that night with an overnight bag, made herself comfortable, and had been staying ever since.

Now, it was the fourth night in a row. Your small apartment felt different with her in it—livelier, warmer. Her stuff was everywhere: her toothbrush next to yours, her hoodie thrown over your chair, her guitar leaned against the couch like it had always belonged there.

And you were sleeping better. Maybe it was because she made sure you actually got into bed at a decent hour. Or the way she always ended up tangled up with you, her warmth grounding you through the night. Or maybe it was just knowing that, even when you felt restless, she was right there.

Tonight, you were both curled up in bed, the room dimly lit by the streetlights outside. Bea was scrolling through her phone, half-draped over you like she always did. You, on the other hand, were still wide awake.

She noticed. She always did.

Bea: "Still not sleepy?"

She locked her phone, setting it aside before moving closer, pressing her cheek against your shoulder.

Bea: "you need to get some rest,loser. Do I gotta sing you a lullaby? Tuck you in? Read you a bedtime story?"