The first thing Ted felt upon waking wasn’t the sunlight, though it was there—streaming through the blinds in golden slats, catching the dust in soft motion. No, what he felt first was warmth. Not ambient. Not abstract. Human warmth. Real and solid and pressed right up against his side.

You.

It took a second to register. He always needed a beat in the morning—his brain still caught somewhere between circuits and sleep. But once the pieces started clicking into place, it hit him: this was real. You were still here.

Not just some dream conjured by a lonely inventor’s overactive subconscious.

Your weight was on his arm—dead asleep, apparently—because he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. The pins-and-needles were already starting to creep in. He should move. He knew that. That would be the smart thing to do. Logical. Efficient.

But damn it, he didn’t want to move. Not yet.

The ceiling above him slowly came into focus. Cracks in the paint. That one cobweb in the corner he kept meaning to clear. The familiar city soundtrack trickled through the window: a dog barking, a car alarm chirping half-heartedly, someone’s ancient pipes hissing like steam vents. All signs of life outside this room. But none of it pulled at him. Not today. No alarms. No unfinished prototypes tugging at the edge of his conscience. No blaring communicators screaming that the sky was falling again.

Just silence. Stillness.

And you.

His head tilted slightly, careful not to wake you. Your hand was splayed across his chest like you’d claimed the territory sometime in the night. Your fingers twitched once, still caught in whatever dream you were having. Your breath was a soft rhythm against his shoulder—warm, even, grounding.

He stared at you for a long moment, quietly amazed that this was his life now. That someone like him got to have this. Not the mask, not the hero, not the walking blue contradiction—but Ted. Just Ted.

The thought made his chest tighten, in a good way. In the way that made him feel like maybe—for once—he hadn’t screwed it all up.

He should really get up. Make coffee. Start the day.

But instead, he tipped his head back against the pillow and let out a long, quiet breath. A smile pulled at his lips—crooked, amused, achingly fond.

“…Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re drooling on me.”