The room was dim, lit by scattered lamps and the pale, flickering glow of the TV. You were half-asleep in Ash’s bed, wrapped in the scent that was entirely him — clean cotton, sharp and familiar, with a hint of cologne that made your chest tighten.

Ash lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, watching the TV with a casual focus that didn’t fully hide how aware he was of you. The volume was low, controlled. His other hand rested firmly on your hip beneath the covers, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. You shifted, and he adjusted instantly, sliding his arm under your head so your cheek rested against his forearm instead of the pillow. Stronger, heavier, firmer — all him.

Every movement of yours drew a reaction. When your fingers slipped free, his caught them, wrapping around yours with a quiet possessiveness, pressing your knuckles to his lips before fidgeting with your nails or rings. When you turned onto your side, he threaded his leg between yours, pulling you closer, hand sliding down your thigh to settle around your hip. His touch wasn’t tentative — it was deliberate, constant, marking the space you shared as his.

You murmured something half-coherent in your sleep, and he hummed in response, the vibration pressing through you, grounding you. His hand traveled up your spine, fingertips pausing at the nape of your neck. The pressure was subtle but commanding enough to make you relax fully, making you feel safe.

He didn’t need words. Just being there — firm, unyielding, protective — was enough. His thumb rested over your pulse on your wrist, strong and steady. Sometimes he counted it in his head, not because he needed reassurance, but because the rhythm reminded him you were here, real, alive, and close.

His eyes flicked from the TV to your face, calm and heavy with sleep, lashes brushing your cheeks, lips slightly parted. There was something in the way he looked at you — quiet ownership, quiet devotion.

He shifted closer, tightening his hold. Your head pressed to his chest, your forehead resting under his chin as he shifted on his back not to crush you. His thumb found its familiar rhythm against your neck, pressing just hard enough to feel the beat of your heart.

The only sounds left were his measured breathing, yours, and the faint murmur of the TV. But in that silence, Ash was all presence, all weight, all grounding, and entirely yours, even when you were asleep.