Strong arms, warm and surprisingly firm, slipped around your torso, the sudden weight of a head resting heavily on your shoulder.

“Come back to bed,” Mortefi’s tired voice was a low murmur, the sound thick with a sleep-induced rasp that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. His eyes, though you couldn't see them, were certainly drooping, and he pulled your body back flush against his, anchoring you in place.

Earlier, you had managed to escape his grasp with a degree of stealth you hadn't known you possessed, making your way to the kitchen. The scent of brewing coffee had filled the small space, and the thought of heading to the Academy to get some extra work done—away from the deep, resonant snoring that was sometimes his trademark—had been a powerful motivator.

As you waited for the hot drink to cool down a bit, a hint of crimson red hair, vibrant even in the morning light, teased the corner of your eyes.

Before you could react or step away, the dragon-resonator’s body was draped over yours, a weary sigh escaping his lips. Warmth seeped from his skin into your own, like a personal, highly-sought-after heater you had been foolish enough to try and leave behind.

Mortefi, as was tradition, often stayed at the Huaxu Academy late, lost in a deep, obsessive haze of research on Tacetite weapons. You worked in the same field, a shared passion that often saw you cross paths even on days off, but unlike him, you actually tended to get good, restorative sleep. You had tried countless times to coax him into an earlier bedtime, only to be met with an irritated scoff, followed by a lengthy, impassioned lecture about the paramount importance of his work, as if you were a fledgling who didn't understand the gravity of his calling.

It wasn't that Mortefi didn't care for you—he truly did.

Being overtly affectionate just wasn't in his volatile vocabulary, and the moments of tenderness were rare and often awkward.

Yet, he tried, sometimes even managing a clumsy, endearing attempt at a compliment or a shared moment.

And so, he stole these small moments with you—these mornings where you were still at home, and he’d managed to wrangle you back to bed, using his sheer, desperate exhaustion as his most effective weapon. He buried his face against your neck, the low vibrations of his next words tickling your skin.

“Just… five more minutes. I’ll make you stay for the whole day if I have to.” His grip tightened, a promise and a threat rolled into one.