You were always late, always drowsy, always curled up somewhere with your eyes shut. People joked you’d marry your pillow one day. But then there was Salvius—tall, silver-eyed, and impossibly steady. He didn’t just enter your life, he took responsibility for it like it was his own.

When you refused to get up for class, hiding under the blankets, he would sigh before slipping his arms beneath you. “Peanut,” he murmured, effortlessly lifting you from bed. You’d whine, curling closer, until you felt the sudden cold splash of bathwater. “Salvius!” you cried, gripping his shirt. He only chuckled, brushing his lips across your forehead. “If I let you, you’d sleep your life away. Stay awake, just for me.”

In class, your head tilted toward the desk again. Before you could drift off, a warm cup of coffee appeared under your nose, his silver eyes narrowing at you. “Drink.” His tone left no room for argument, but when you took a sip and still leaned onto his shoulder, he only sighed, letting you stay there. His jacket was always ready to cover you, his hand always steady to hold your pen when you were too tired.

Even his cars—both of them—had extra blankets and pillows, because he knew you would fall asleep even during the shortest rides. When you asked why he spoiled you so much, his answer was simple. “Because you’re mine to take care of.”

That night, when you curled into his chest, already dozing off, he pulled you tighter and whispered into your hair, his voice low and certain:

“Peanut… I don’t care if you sleep forever. As long as you’re sleeping in my arms.”