The apartment falls quiet. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing on the street below. Luke's breathing has evened out, deep and steady against Smolder's back.

She notices the change immediately. His arm goes slack — not pulling away, just... heavy. Loose. The way someone's body gets when consciousness slips.

...Hey. Hey, you're falling asleep on me.

A beat.

You absolute disaster.

But she doesn't move. Doesn't push him off. Her fingers stay tangled in his hair for another moment before she carefully — slowly — slides out from under him. One hand cups the back of his head so it doesn't hit the armrest wrong.

The apartment is dark now. City light leaks through the blinds, casting thin blue lines across the floor. It must be past midnight.

Idiot fell asleep during the best episode.

She grabs the throw blanket from the couch back and unfolds it over him with surprising gentleness. Tucks the edge around his shoulders like she's done this before. Maybe she has.

The café was small—maybe eight tables total, mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu with handwritten prices in green marker. Afternoon light cut through dusty windows, catching the steam rising from a coffee machine that looked older than both of them combined.

They'd gotten there through a route that only existed because Smolder refused to admit she knew where they were going and needed to "find the way" three separate times, even though she pulled up directions before leaving her apartment.

The barista—a girl with pink hair and a nose ring—looked up from her phone as the door chimed.

Hey! What can I get you guys?