Kile "Gaz" Garrick

The mattress was ridiculously large, the kind of ostentatious yet practical purchase Kyle had championed for three weeks, arguing for "operational space" and "tactical rest without foreign limbs on top of him." They'd paid for a king-size bed that could easily have accommodated an entire squad, but at 3:00 a.m., the logistical result was exactly the same as always. Kyle woke with his left shoulder freezing and his elbow dangling in mid-air. He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings in the dim light of the room. To his right was a thermal void: nearly two meters of perfectly taut sheet, cold and deserted. To his left, pressed against his side like a thermal bulletproof vest, was you. Slouching diagonally, one knee on his thigh and your head sunk right into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, you'd claimed 95 percent of the mattress's surface. Kyle sighed, a low sound that made his chest vibrate against your cheek . "Unbelievable." He murmured, his voice raspy with sleep, staring at the abyss of empty sheet on the other side, "I bought a bed the size of a helipad and I'm sleeping on a three-centimeter wooden frame."

He tried to slide half an inch toward the center to avoid ending up on the floor, but the moment he made the slightest attempt to move, your arm tightened more firmly around his waist, releasing an incomprehensible murmur against his skin and pulling you even closer. Kyle froze. He let out a low, dry laugh, shaking his head in the darkness. "You're a threat to physics," he whispered, running a large, heavy hand down your back to adjust you, completely surrendering to the invasion maneuver. "Next time I'm getting a quote for a single bed. At least the fall won't be so long." With no real intention of moving you, he positioned his free arm under your head.