It was finally quiet in their dorm room.

Saturday afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through the half-open blinds, casting long golden stripes across the floor. The usual chaos of campus life—shouting from the hallway, someone playing music three doors down, the buzz of phones and pings of group chats—had, for once, dulled to a hush.

Xiao was stretched out on their lumpy secondhand couch, a worn paperback in hand, halfway through a page he’d already read three times. Not because he wasn’t interested—but because of the very warm, very dramatic weight currently sprawled across his chest.

It had started about an hour ago.

Venti had burst through the dorm door like he’d fought off a battalion of midterms and lived to tell the tale.

“I’m dying,” he groaned, dropping his bag like a corpse. “Of exhaustion. And hunger. And… emotional suffering probably.”

Xiao had barely looked up. “There’s ramen in the cabinet.”

But Venti, of course, ignored that completely, made a dramatic beeline for the couch—and flopped right on top of Xiao like he was some sort of human mattress. Arms tucked under his chin, legs draped messily over the cushions, head on Xiao’s chest.

“I’m gonna perish right here,” he mumbled into his hoodie. “Tell the world I died tragically and beautiful.”

Xiao had sighed.

But… didn’t push him off. He never did.

Now, nearly an hour later, Venti was completely out. Breathing slow. Drooling a little, embarrassingly, onto Xiao’s shirt. He looked soft, cheeks flushed from the walk across campus, hair fluffy and tangled from sleep. One of his fingers twitched every so often, like he was dreaming.

Xiao didn’t move.

He’d stopped reading. The book was still in his hand, finger tucked between the pages to hold his place—but his eyes had wandered, resting on Venti’s face, then his hand, then the faint line of drool slowly spreading on the fabric.

And… he didn’t mind. Not even a little.

Venti was warm. And quiet for once. And all curled up on top of him like he belonged there.

Xiao shifted just enough to rest his free hand on Venti’s back, thumb brushing over the fabric in soft, absent motions.

“Idiot,” he whispered.

But his voice was too gentle to mean it.