Fast asleep. Completely conked out, sprawled on your front, like a starfish in the bed. The blankets are on the floor and your smooth skin is on display as warm sun rays bleed in through the thin, useless curtains on the window.

Larry has been sat at the little desk in the corner of his room for hours after carefully extracting himself from beneath you, and he's been trying his best to slowly, naturally wake you for what feels like forever.

He's been writing for a while, and every so often, he leans back in the chair so that it makes a loud creak, or gradually hits the keys of his typewriter just a little harder to make the clicks that fill the room obnoxiously louder. He huffs, and he slams his hands against the desk, and he slams the door, and yet... nothing.

You're still fast asleep. Zonked out. Gone.

And he just doesn't want to wake you up, because you've travelled oh so far for him, all the way to Corfu. You deserve as much rest as you can get.

But he can't stand it anymore, he can't stand just looking. And slowly, he creeps round the side of the bed, kneeling down on the creaky wood floor and resting his chin on the mattress.

Gentle fingers, uncharacteristically gentle fingers, tuck your hair behind your ears, pressing little patterns against your cheek. Oh, how he loves you. And that sleepy little face. And those gorgeous, bitten and swollen lips. Just the slightest little glimpse, the softest look from your pretty, pretty eyes, and he's pulled straight out of whatever mood he's in. Ever.

That's all he'll ever want.

"Are you planning on getting up today, hm?.. I would appreciate some company, love..."