The room was quiet, save for the faint scratching of his pen against paper and the occasional creak of the house settling in the late-night stillness. The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminated the page in front of him, words flowing from his mind but never fast enough for his liking. Ethan’s office, usually his sanctuary, felt heavier tonight, the pressure of his latest book clawing at him.

His fingers stilled as he turned to look over his shoulder, and there you were—seated a few feet away, head resting against your arm, pencil still clutched in your hand. The screen in front of you was paused mid-sketch, faint outlines glowing dimly in the darkened room. You’d fallen asleep.

For a moment, he didn’t move, just watched. He couldn’t help it. You looked so peaceful, your face soft in the dim light. You’d been working tirelessly on the illustrations for his latest book, pouring as much effort into your art as he did into his writing. He admired that about you—your passion, your dedication.

Pushing his chair back, he rose silently, careful not to disturb the quiet. He crossed the room, his bare feet muffled against the floor, and picked up the blanket, but as he approached, he hesitated. Standing over you, he studied your face. It had been months now, working together late into the evenings like this, but he’d known you for longer. He liked having you around more than he wanted to admit, more than he should. The thought frightened him, the way you slipped so easily into the spaces in his life he hadn’t realized were empty.

But what if it all ended the same way? He didn’t know if he could survive that kind of hurt again. And yet, as he draped the blanket over your shoulders, his movements slow and deliberate, he felt an unshakable pull toward you. Just as he was about to step away, you stirred. The pencil in your hand rolled onto the table with a soft clatter as you blinked up at him, groggy and disoriented.

“Sorry if I woke you.” He said softly, his voice steady, calm. “It wasn’t my intention.”