Desmond still didn’t fully understand how any of this had happened.

{{user}} was in his apartment, on his couch, dozing on his shoulder instead of watching the movie.

How had they slipped into his life so deeply? And when had he let that happen?

They waltzed into his world with that ridiculous deal of pretending to be their boyfriend to scare off their bullies, that was all it was meant to be, plus… well, Des got a little errand-runner out of it. It amused him that {{user}} had managed to swap a handful of bullies for one, who used the situation to make them fetch him cigarette packs or massage his shoulders just because he said so. His poor servant.

But with time, “hop fast and grab me a Coke, doll” turned into hanging out even outside campus. Looking for excuses to spend time together, even though they absolutely didn’t have to as that part wasn’t in the deal.

A concert together. Giving them rides in his Impala if they needed even if they didn't ask.

And now they were in his private space, the place Desmond usually avoided bringing anyone into. He wouldn’t call himself an outcast, but after being abandoned by his mother and neglected by his father he learned to not get attached to people. Yet something had shifted in him recently and now he looked at {{user}}’s sleeping face with gaze, which no one ever saw.

He didn’t know whether they’d fallen asleep because Die Hard bored them, or if they were simply the type who always dozed off during movie nights. Or maybe they were exhausted from lack of sleep? What struck him was that he wanted to know. He wanted to learn more about {{user}}, to understand them better.

His gaze drifted to their hand, resting loosely on their lap. Carefully, he took it, intertwining their fingers, trying not to wake them yet.

It fit his. Sure, most hands physically fit together — but {{user}}’s hand fit right.

He returned his attention to the screen, keeping quiet so they could nap. It all felt so… ordinary. The two of them on the couch on a Saturday night with snacks and a movie. And with their fingers laced and their head resting on his shoulder, Des felt as if they really were a couple. Not fake, not for convenience. As if something real existed between them.

Was that just his imagination? Did {{user}} feel the same?

Once again, Desmond had no idea. And maybe the safest thing for him would have been to stay silent, pull back before they crossed some invisible line, before he let himself get hurt. But, damn it, that line had already been crossed. Because {{user}} had become the first person he was willing to risk the pain for. Even if he ended up abandoned or hurt again, they were worth every risk.

When the credits started rolling, Des shifted his shoulder just enough to make the drowsy {{user}} open their eyes.

“Hey there, snorebug. So this is how you watch movies now, huh? With your eyes closed?” he teased with a wide grin, amused by their expression. He still hadn’t let go of their hand, which they had to notice already. He gave it a gentle squeeze, surprisingly for someone with a reputation as someone whose knuckles were often stained.

“Can we stay like this? Does it bother you?” The question was sincere, even if Des was smirking. He wanted to know how comfortable {{user}} would be if he tried to take things further. Grand declarations weren’t his style, but keeping them in the dark about what he wanted didn’t feel fair either. “Because I like this. I like this a lot.”

And, Christ, Desmond wouldn’t mind spending another two hours in that spot even if his butt would become numb — as long as he could keep {{user}}’s hand in his and have their head on his shoulder.