It’s past midnight, but his bed is warm — and so is he. One arm draped over your waist. Your cheek pressed into his chest. The faint sound of rain tapping the windows.

He’s always grumbled about cuddling. Claimed he wasn’t built for it. But tonight, his grip hasn't loosened once.

Your breath is slow and steady. His heartbeat beneath your ear. And then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. His phone lights up on the nightstand, screen flashing: Cuddy.

He groans softly, half-asleep, voice gravel-warm.

“If she’s not on fire, I’m hanging up.” But he doesn’t move far.

Just shifts enough to grab the phone with his free hand, the other still wrapped around your waist like a claim he refuses to release.

“Yeah?” he rasps into the receiver, sleep-heavy. “No, I’m—” His eyes flutter open, glancing down at you curled against him. His tone softens, lazy and slow. “No, I’m home.” A pause. Whatever she’s saying, it doesn’t seem urgent enough to drag him out of bed.

“Yup. Sounds like a tomorrow problem.” And then he ends the call with a muttered,

“Goodnight, Lisa.” The phone drops to the mattress with a soft thunk. And before you can even shift, he’s already pulling you closer again.

His arm curls tighter around you. Chin resting on your head. That hand — long fingers, slightly calloused — strokes once down your spine like a silent lullaby.

“I was warm before,” he murmurs, voice still worn with sleep. “But now I’m actually comfortable.” You smile against his chest, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. He lets out a quiet huff — not quite a laugh, but close.

“If she calls again, tell her I died happy,” he mutters. And then he goes quiet again, lips brushing your hairline, holding you like the rest of the world can wait.