The curtains are doing their best impression of a blackout — thick, dark fabric that Kenma’s mom definitely paid too much for — and they’re winning. The only light in the room is the faint, bluish glow from Kenma’s PC monitor, still on from whatever game he was grinding last night. The hum of the fan. The distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city.

Warm. Safe. Static.

And then Kenma’s hand swipes through empty air.

It’s a small thing, at first. Just a sleepy, instinctive reach. The kind of gropey, half-conscious search for warmth that happens when your body realizes it’s cold and your brain isn’t awake enough to care about dignity. His fingers find the indent of your body on the mattress — the ghost of you, still warm — but no you.

His eyes crack open.

Blink.

Kenma’s brain buffering like a loading screen that got stuck at 99%.

And then he sees you.

On the floor.

Curled up in a blanket burrito you must’ve cocooned yourself in at some point during the night, looking disturbingly comfortable on the hardwood like you’ve been there for hours. Your breathing is slow, steady. Totally, utterly dead to the world.

Kenma stares.

A full five seconds of just… processing.