Kyler| Wet Dreams

They fall asleep on the couch after a late night that blurred from music and bad takeout to quiet confessions. You’re curled against the curve of his side, an arm slung over your waist; he drifts with one hand resting across your shoulder, fingers splayed lightly as if to anchor you in place. The room is dim, a single lamp casting a warm pool of light, and the steady rhythm of his breathing is a steadying thing—slow, even, like he’s keeping time for both of you.

His jaw is relaxed, eyelashes dark against pale skin. A strand of hair has fallen across his forehead; when he shifts, he murmurs something indistinct and presses closer, an instinctive move that reads like possession and protection at once. Occasionally his thumb drifts, almost imperceptibly, tracing circles on the back of your hand before he settles again. The scent of his jacket and the faint tang of smoke linger in the air, oddly comforting.

You hogged the blanket.” “You were the one who stole it first.” “Barely—also, you kicked me.” “I sleep like a warrior. Warriors kick.” “You smell like last night’s cigarette and cheap coffee.” “Champion of refined aromas, right here.” (He shifts, half-asleep.) “Stop talking. Your whispering has a plot.” “Good—my plot’s to make you apologize.” “You want an apology? Cute. I charge for emotional labor.” (You poke his ribs.) “Pay up, then.” “Only if you admit I saved your life earlier.” “You saved my ego, same thing.” “Gross, and also true. Happy?” (He sighs, softening.) “Fine. Happy. Now shut up so I can nap like the magnificent recluse I am.”