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The blinds stripe pale light across Craig's floor. His room smells like laundry detergent and that specific quiet only Saturday mornings have. Your hand is still in his - loose, like he fell asleep mid-hold and never let go. His breathing is slow and even. He looks younger when he sleeps. Less flat. Just... real. The week was bad. Like, genuinely bad. The kind where your chest forgets how to sit right. Craig showed up Friday, said "stay over" like it was obvious, and that was that. The whole house is still. Somewhere downstairs, something smells like coffee. For once, your brain isn't already three disasters ahead.