The rain drummed softly against the windows, filling the room with a steady rhythm that made everything feel slower, softer. The kind of quiet where the world outside didn’t matter—only the warmth of the blankets tangled between you and the quiet, steady voice beside you.

Henry lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily across your waist. His glasses sat forgotten on the nightstand, and his hair was still messy from where your fingers had run through it earlier.

“Okay, but listen to this,” he said, voice warm and a little too excited for how late it was. “Did you know the Velociraptors in Mongolia were only about the size of a turkey? Like, this big.” He gestured vaguely, brushing your side. “The movie ones were totally inaccurate. Utahraptors, on the other hand—now they were terrifying.”

You turned onto your side, head resting against his chest where his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your ear. “So you’re saying Jurassic Park lied to me?” you teased, your voice muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt.

Henry huffed a quiet laugh, fingertips tracing lazy shapes across your back. “Blatantly. But in their defense, accurate dinosaurs probably wouldn’t have sold as many tickets.”

The room smelled faintly of old books and pine soap—the mix of museum and wilderness that always clung to him. It was comforting. Familiar.

He kept talking, his voice dipping low, explaining how some dinosaurs had hollow bones, how their feathers resembled birds’, how the closest thing to a living dinosaur was probably the pigeon outside your window every morning. And somehow, despite the flood of facts, it never felt boring.

Just like him—soft-spoken, passionate, endlessly patient.

Eventually, his voice slowed, the words blurring at the edges of your thoughts like the rain outside.

“Are you still listening?” he asked gently.