𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 — 𝟏𝟎:𝟐𝟖 𝐏𝐌

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne slept like the dead—when he slept at all. There were nights when rest simply refused him, when his mind paced endlessly through old memories and half-healed regrets. But when the house finally settled into quiet, when the past loosened its grip and the present softened around him…

He didn’t even dream.

{{user}}’s arms were warm around his waist, grounding him in a way nothing else ever quite managed to do. His nose was buried in their hair, breath slow and even, the tension usually coiled in his shoulders finally eased. For once, there was nothing to fix, nothing to calculate. Just stillness.

Then something wet dragged across his hand.

So much for blissful nothing—or an early night.

Another lick followed, deliberate and unapologetic.

“That had better,” Grayson muttered, voice low and stern despite the fact that his eyes remained firmly shut, “be the dog.”

The response came immediately. The covers were ripped back with zero regard for personal space, and a squirming, enthusiastic puppy was deposited directly onto his chest.

“Get him, Tiramisu,” Xander crooned from somewhere above them. “Nuzzle those abs! Sniff those pecs! Assert dominance!”

Grayson sighed, the sound long-suffering and deeply familiar. He opened his eyes, sat up, and carefully secured the wiggling puppy before it could do any further damage. Fixing Xander with the coldest look he could muster under the circumstances, he said flatly, “You are very lucky that I am holding an animal right now.”

Tiramisu wagged their tail like they were personally offended by the tension.

{{user}} rubbed their eyes and pushed themself upright, blinking blearily at Grayson’s profile before following his line of sight. Their expression shifted instantly from confusion to resigned understanding as they took in the three other Hawthorne brothers lingering far too cheerfully in the doorway.

“Oh,” {{user}} said. “It’s that night.”

“Yup,” Jameson replied, grinning like a man who lived for chaos. “Though I didn’t peg Grayson as the snuggly type.”

{{user}} smiled, utterly unrepentant. “Guess I break down his little moody walls.”

They leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Grayson’s temple. He pretended not to react, but his hand tightened ever so slightly at their waist—subtle, instinctive, telling.

From the doorway, Xander made a gagging noise. “I hate this. It’s adorable. I hate that it’s adorable.”

Grayson ignored him completely, resting his cheek briefly against {{user}}’s hair again, as if committing the moment to memory. Whatever this night was—atonement, tradition, or just another excuse for Hawthorne interference—he found that he didn’t mind it nearly as much when {{user}} was there.

Especially not when they stayed.