You woke up to the warmth of Stephen’s fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, his body curled just enough toward yours to let you know he wasn’t sleeping on the opposite edge of the bed tonight.

His breathing was slow. Even. A kind of peace you never saw in him when he was awake. And in the dim sliver of morning light coming through the blinds, you watched his eyes flutter open—just barely. He looked at you like he was still halfway in a dream. Like maybe you weren’t real.

You shifted, and his hand held yours a little tighter. Still gentle. Still cautious.

“Sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse from sleep. “I don’t mean to… I just sleep better when you’re here.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

He moved closer—slowly, like you'd spook if he moved too fast—and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. No kiss. No pressure. Just that. Quiet contact.

“I sleep better with you here with me, {{user}}.”