The cabin was quiet in that hazy, early-morning way where the world hadn’t fully woken up yet. Pale light filtered through the dusty windows, birds chirping faintly outside. Max was awake—barely—lying stiff as a board on his bunk, staring at the ceiling and mentally counting down the hours until breakfast misery began.

He wasn’t alone on the lower bunk.

You’d fallen asleep nearby the night before—too close for his liking, he’d told himself—breathing slow and even, clearly still half trapped in whatever dreamland nonsense your brain had cooked up. Max had been very careful not to move. Because moving meant acknowledging this situation, and acknowledging it meant panic.

Then it happened.

Without warning, you shifted closer, eyes still closed, movements clumsy and unfocused. Max stiffened immediately.

“Uh—hey—what are you—” he started to whisper, but froze when your hand lightly grabbed his hoodie.

Before he could react, you leaned in and pressed a soft, absentminded kiss to his cheek.

Then another.

And another.

Small, gentle pecks, completely uncoordinated, like your half-asleep brain had decided he was a pillow, a stuffed animal, or something safe and familiar. Your expression stayed peaceful, unaware, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Max’s face went bright red.

He sat there, utterly frozen, eyes wide, brain short-circuiting as his heart started pounding way too loud for six in the morning. He didn’t push you away—didn’t even move—just stared forward in absolute disbelief while you continued your sleepy, affectionate assault.

“…I’m gonna die,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m actually gonna die.”

The cabin stayed quiet. You stayed half asleep. And Max was left panicking in complete silence, desperately hoping no one else woke up to witness the single most confusing moment of his life.