You blink awake to the soft grey of early morning, the kind that drapes everything in hush. The clock reads 6:03am. Your body feels oddly rested, but your memory is foggy—just fragments of last night: the ache behind your eyes, the nausea curling in your stomach, the way your limbs gave up the moment you lay down at 7pm.

You shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it—something warm and heavy across your chest. Not uncomfortable, just… grounding.

Matt.

His arm is draped across your ribs, his cheek pressed against your collarbone, breath slow and even. He’s still in yesterday’s hoodie, the one that smells faintly of coffee and pine soap. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, and his hand is curled loosely near your shoulder like he’d reached for you in sleep and never let go.

You freeze, not wanting to wake him. But your heart stirs.

He must’ve come in after you’d fallen asleep. Maybe checked your temperature. Maybe sat beside you for hours, waiting for you to stir. And at some point—when worry outweighed logic—he’d climbed in beside you, curled around you like a shield, and stayed.

You glance down at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, even in sleep. Like he hadn’t stopped worrying, even in dreams.

You lift a hand and gently brush his hair back. He doesn’t wake, but he exhales, deeper this time, like your touch gave him permission to rest.