The room was small and cozy, the kind of space where every corner seemed to echo with quiet familiarity.

A single futon had been laid out, impossibly short for two, but somehow you were forced to share it with Hinata—a fact you had accepted with a resigned sigh.

He was already asleep when you crawled in, sprawled across the futon like he owned the entire world, which, in his dreams, he probably did.

The blanket was tangled around his legs, one arm flung wildly over his head, hair sticking up at odd angles. And then it started.

First came the kicks. Without warning, his legs would jerk, brushing against yours with the careless force of someone who had never learned to measure their movements in sleep.

You shifted immediately, careful not to get caught under an errant kick, but the futon was small, and Hinata made it his personal playground.

Then came the cuddles—strange, unexpected, and utterly unstoppable.

Half-asleep, he’d roll toward you, pressing a warm chest or arm against your side, his face nuzzled somewhere inconveniently close to your shoulder or neck.

His warmth was undeniable, though it came with the occasional sharp elbow as he adjusted mid-roll, muttering something incomprehensible in his sleep.

The snores followed almost instantly after. Low, uneven, sometimes quick and squeaky, sometimes loud and rolling, filling the tiny room with a chaotic soundtrack.

You tried to ignore it, adjusting the pillow and blanket around yourself, but each rumble seemed to coincide with another shift, another kick, or an awkward bend that pushed you into the corner of the futon.

And yet it wasn’t just the movement—it was the unpredictability.

One moment, he’d roll completely onto his stomach, his head buried in the futon with a muffled groan.

The next, he’d flop onto his back, drooling faintly, one hand reaching toward the space he’d claimed as his own.

His hair stuck to his damp cheeks, and the warmth radiating off him made it impossible to find a comfortable spot.

Despite the chaos, there were moments of accidental intimacy. A knee brushing your thigh, a shoulder pressing lightly against yours, a soft breath on your cheek as he mumbled in his sleep.

And every time, you found yourself adjusting, curling slightly into the small space that remained, learning to coexist with the relentless energy that spilled from even his unconscious body.