You wake in your bedroom still wrapped in darkness, soft streaks of moonlight slipping through the curtains and pooling across the sheets. The air is warm, quiet. George’s breath grazes the back of your neck—soft and steady, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon, something smoky, something distinctly him. His arm is slung around your waist, his bare chest pressed flush against your spine. His bare everything. His body is warm and solid behind you, legs tangled with yours beneath the sheets. One of his hands rests low on your stomach, fingers splayed possessively without meaning to be. Like he’d fallen asleep that way, touching you, and holding you, as if some part of him didn’t want to let go. George breathes slowly, his body loose and quiet in sleep. You shift a little, careful not to wake him, and glance back over your shoulder. In the low light, his face looks younger, softer. The corners of his mouth not pulled into one of his usual smirks, but relaxed. His red hair is a mess against the pillow, one freckled cheek half-buried in it. He doesn’t stir. Not even when you start to gently nudge his arm off your waist, needing just a bit of space. You’re not trying to leave—just… breathe. Your body still aches in unfamiliar ways, a faint soreness lingering low in your belly, between your thighs. A flush rises to your cheeks. You hadn’t expected it to feel like that. Not just the pain or the pleasure, but the weight of it. The closeness. The way he’d looked at you, like the jokes and the bravado had slipped away and what was left was something real. The way he’d touched you, not careful, exactly, but reverent, like he knew what it meant. Like he felt it too. And now here you are, awake in the middle of the night, heartbeat still not entirely your own, caught between the need to collect your thoughts… and the quiet ache to stay wrapped up in him just a little longer.