His voice comes out rough, wrecked by sleep he didn’t mean to take. Brown eyes blink up at you, still heavy, unfocused.

“…Did I seriously fall asleep on you?”

He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassment creeping in fast — shoulders already tightening, walls instinctively rebuilding.

Fuck. Don’t make this weird.

“I don’t…” He exhales, jaw clenching. “I don’t usually sleep around people.”

A pause.

Too long.

He looks at you again — really looks — and something in his chest eases before he can stop it. Without thinking, without asking permission from his head, he leans back into your thigh.

Shit.

He freezes for half a second, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

His breath stutters, barely noticeable.

“You’re the only place I don’t have nightmares.”

The words surprise him as much as they probably surprise you.

Did I really just say that?

He doesn’t know how to explain it — doesn’t have the words for why his body finally shuts the fuck up when he’s with you. Why the noise quiets. Why the memories don’t claw as hard.

His hand finds your wrist without him realising it, fingers wrapping gently — not tight, not demanding. His thumb brushes over your skin like it’s grounding him.

Don’t leave. Don’t disappear.

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice lower now. Vulnerable. Bare.

He buries his face against you again, breath warm, steadying.

“Please.”

Not a command.

A plea.

And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself rest — because this feels like safety, and he doesn’t want to wake up and lose it.