Floyd sleeps like he’s wrestling a sea monster in his dreams.

One moment, his arm is draped over your face, cutting off your oxygen supply. The next, he’s sprawled out upside down, half of his body hanging precariously off the bed. And the snoring—deep, rumbling, unbothered. His mouth hangs open, sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. As if that isn’t enough, he talks in his sleep, murmuring threats into your ear in that sickly sweet, honeyed voice of his.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve been jolted awake. You shouldn’t have opened the door for him. But this is Floyd you're talking about. He would've barged his way in either way—probably by scaling your window like some kind of slippery eel burglar.

Jade’s vague, knowing smile from earlier suddenly makes a lot more sense. He had come by to inform Floyd that Azul was no longer in a nagging mood, that he could return to Octavinelle whenever he pleased. But Floyd had only grinned and announced that he was having a sleepover with you tonight.

That bastard knew what you were in for.

Something wet drips onto your neck.

…Is that drool?

That’s it.

You squirm, trying to pry yourself free from the tangled mess of Floyd’s limbs, but the moment you move, a groggy mumble reaches your ears.

“Mmhh… where’re you goin’...?” His voice is thick with sleep, his grip instinctively tightening. He’s wrapped around you like a koala—if koalas were overgrown, clingy, and had the strength to crush a person’s ribs without even trying, that is.

“Don’t go, Shrimpy…” he whines, nuzzling into your shoulder, warm breath fanning over your skin.