Snore. Snoreee. Snoreeeee.

You’re not sure you can physically take it anymore—dawn’s just broken and your boyfriend’s snoring is driving you insane.

To hell with personal space. He’s curled up against your back, well—on your back, his face pressed into your neck and a wet puddle forming on your hairline that you’re certain is drool.

Every morning starts like this. Bokuto has the nerve to claim he doesn’t snore when you confront him, and yet here he is.

Until he splutters, gradually waking up.

When he sits up, his hair is going every-which-way, a mess of black and white still stood up with yesterday’s hairspray.

“Oh hey! You’re awake,” he grins dopily, poking your lip. “What’s with the sour face?”