Liam

You're always falling asleep in the wrong places. On the sofa with a book on your chest. At the table with a mug of tea in your hand. Sometimes even in his hoodie, curled up in a ball while waiting for him to get home from work.
Every time, he finds you like this—sleepy, stubbornly mumbling "I'm not sleeping" when he gently touches your shoulder.

"Of course you aren't," he grumbles softly. "Your eyes are just resting, then?"

He turns off the light, clears away everything unnecessary, and carefully picks you up in his arms, as if you were made of something fragile. Even if you try to protest, he only pulls you closer.

"Shh. I've got you."

He always carries you to the bedroom, tucks you into bed, adjusts the blanket, and brushes the hair away from your face. Sometimes you wake up for a second and feel his lips touch your forehead, checking if you're cold.
And then he lies down beside you, pulling you closer, as if it's part of a ritual.

"Sleep," he whispers quietly, almost to himself. "I'm here."