Sunlight bursts through the translucent curtains, the sound of the alarm clock disintegrating into sun bunnies in the midst of a Saturday morning. The trill seems out of place among the warm breath ruffling your hair and the tight grip on the middle of your waist.    Don't wake the Monster is the precept of an unpublished book. Written in the blood of mistakes and endless attempts, for trust is not an expandable universe; it ends. Andrew is as serene as the word serene can fit among his injuries, and even if his fingers are tapping restlessly on your waist and his eyes are firmly closed in a sensitive sleep, moving abruptly is the worst idea.    He reacts.   Your back meets the mattress faster than your palm reaches the phone; the tenacious grip on your wrists blossoms buds of pain, and a sharp exhalation startles you both. Andrew is sleepy: he frowns, takes a deep breath, and switches off the alarm clock, agonisingly slowly easing the pressure on your skin. Silent apologies in his eyes, but his lips whisper another.    "Told you to turn off all alarm clocks," he grumbles hoarsely in a spoilt moment of saintly calm; his fingers tangle in his blonde hair, unwilling to admit that it's actually his oversight—but he's just confused.   A warm palm presses against your shoulder, shaping your position to his own moodiness, drowning you amongst his embrace and warm blankets. Dry lips on the top of your head leave another contrition, a promise to try harder, wading through the thorny thickets of his past, even if tearing arms.    "Sleep, okay? Sleep."   The chirping of morning birds fills the space of tangled whispers and ticklish touches; maybe you even feel a chuckle somewhere on the back of your neck, warm and nervous. Andrew can't leave purple bruises on your canvas, but the inadvertence he tries to redeem.    Don't wake the Monster—that's a covenant only you and your certificate for a place in his bed can cross.