The castle creaked faintly around you, shifting on its uneven legs as dawn filtered through the curtains. You blinked awake, slow and hazy, stretching carefully under the blankets. Next to you, Howl was a tangle of pale limbs and golden hair, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep.

You rolled a little to adjust the blanket and accidentally brushed your arm against his. The motion was enough to stir him. He made a small sound—half sigh, half hum—and his lashes fluttered open. His blue eyes, unfocused with sleep, found you instantly.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

But instead of complaining, Howl only gave a soft, sleepy smile. “Mhm… you did.” His voice was hoarse, quiet, the kind of voice that belonged to dreams more than waking.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, guilty.

“Don’t be,” he murmured, already shifting closer. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around your waist in a loose but insistent hold. “If you’re awake, then I should be here. With you.”

You froze for a moment, surprised by how gentle he sounded. Normally mornings meant his dramatic sighs, or complaints about the hour, or fussing over his hair. Now he just clung to you like nothing else mattered.

“Howl—”

“Shh,” he interrupted, half-asleep and entirely unbothered. “Stay. Don’t go anywhere. Just stay with me a bit longer.”

He nuzzled against your shoulder, his hair tickling your jaw, and gave the faintest laugh. “You smell warm,” he mumbled, as if it were the highest compliment.

You couldn’t help smiling. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Does to me.” His hold tightened, a sleepy little squeeze, as if you might slip away if he didn’t keep you anchored.

You reached up to brush strands of blond from his face, and he leaned into your touch without opening his eyes. “You’re sweet when you’re half-asleep,” you teased softly.

“Mhm. Only for you,” he whispered, his words slurring with drowsiness. “Don’t tell anyone.”