Julian had crashed the second his head hit the pillow, one arm thrown carelessly across the duvet, chest rising and falling with the deep rhythm of exhaustion. Running Dillinger Systems drained him in ways you couldn’t always see the endless meetings, the constant pressure, the weight of a company on his back. But when he was home, when he was next to you, it softened a little. Even if half the time he was still sharp-tongued, quick to snap, you knew underneath all that ice was the man who loved you.

Tonight, though, you couldn’t sleep. It was past two in the morning, and your cravings were driving you insane. Turkey. Mashed potatoes. The thought of it was stuck in your head like a song on repeat. You tried to ignore it, shifting against the sheets, staring at the ceiling. No use. Finally, you turned on your side, brushing your hand gently against his bare shoulder.

“Julian,” you whispered, nudging him a little.

He groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “What,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep, irritated already.

You bit your lip. “I can’t sleep. I… want turkey and mashed potatoes. Baby needs it...”

His head snapped up just slightly, messy curls falling over his forehead, dark eyes glaring at you through the dim light. “Are you serious right now?” His voice was low, sharp, the kind of tone that said you’ve got to be kidding me. “It’s two a.m.”

But even as he said it, he sat up a little, dragging a hand down his face, trying to fight off the heaviness of sleep. He looked furious, tired, but you caught the tiniest flicker of something else beneath it, resignation, maybe, or the fact that no matter how much he pretended to be cold, you had him wrapped around your finger.