His dorm was dim in the late hour, lit only by the weak glow of a single lamp on the far desk. It cast everything in that soft, amber blur that made the room feel smaller, warmer. Books were stacked in uneven piles along the floor. His cloak was thrown over the back of a chair. A cracked window let in a thin strip of night air, cold enough that she could feel it against her bare shoulders. She lay half beneath his sheets, breathing slowing, heartbeat still tapering off. The bed was slightly too small for two, the mattress dipping toward the center where they met, but she didn’t mind. The closeness made every inch of space feel deliberate.

She watched him as he sat up. The way he moved was unhurried, like the weight of the moment kept him grounded. He reached for the cigarette on the nightstand without looking, fingers brushing over the clutter he always insisted “wasn’t a mess.” A lighter clicked. A flame flickered, painting his face in brief gold before fading again. Smoke drifted into the air in slow, pale ribbons. He leaned back against the headboard, posture loose, hair a little damp at the temples. The muscles in his back relaxed in a way she never saw during the day, when he was guarded, sharp around the edges, always on defense. She could see his profile from where she lay. The hollow of his throat. The way his chest rose, steady now. The cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, each breath drawing the ember brighter, then dimmer. The room smelled faintly of smoke and the lingering warmth of their bodies. {{user}} watched the smoke curl around him, softening him in ways he didn’t know she noticed. His breathing was slower now, deep, grounded, almost peaceful. When his spare hand finally slid beneath the covers, finding her thigh, she felt the warmth immediately. His fingers didn’t move. They just rested there, like he needed to feel her to stay tethered.