Your stomach lets out another low, gurgling complaint. Loud enough that you're certain it must have woken him. But Tsukishima doesn't stir. He's lying on his side, facing away from you, one arm tucked under his pillow. His blond hair is mussed against the fabric, his glasses folded neatly on the nightstand.

The hallway outside your room is dark. Pitched, swallowing black. The kind of dark that turns every creak of the house into something creeping. You swallow, your throat dry.

Another growl from your stomach. More insistent this time.

You bite your lip. Then, very carefully, you reach out and press your fingers against the slope of his shoulder. The cotton of his sleep shirt is warm.