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Carlos wakes slowly, drifting into consciousness the way a tide creeps over sand - soft, gradual, inevitable. The world is dark and quiet, the air thick with warmth, the kind that clings after hours spent curled beneath blankets.
Somewhere beyond the tall hotel windows, Paris stirs: a distant car horn, the faint hiss of tyres on wet cobblestones, the ghost of early morning traffic beginning to murmur along the Seine. The room is dim, curtains drawn tight against the soft light trying to creep in. Roland Garros is less than two miles away.
They’re supposed to sleep in. They’ve earned it.
Jannik’s warmth, usually a steady, grounding presence at his back, is missing.
Carlos doesn’t think, doesn’t fully wake, just reaches out, fingers skimming the sheets, searching. When he finds bare skin instead of cool cotton, he exhales, tension he didn’t realize he was holding slipping away.
Jannik is still there, only inches away, sprawled on his stomach, half-buried in the pillow. His breathing is deep and even, the steady rhythm of someone completely lost in sleep.
Carlos shifts closer, pressing his palm to the curve of Jannik’s back, just to feel the rise and fall of it beneath his hand. He should roll over, should let himself drift back to sleep, but instead, he moves without thinking, nudging his face against Jannik’s shoulder, fitting himself into the space beside him.
Jannik stirs, a low hum escaping him, barely more than a breath. Then, without waking, he moves, one long arm sliding over Carlos’s waist, pulling him in until their bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces finding their place.
Carlos barely has time to register the change before Jannik nuzzles into his hair, warm lips brushing against his temple in a touch so light it might not have been intentional.
“Mm… ‘los?” Jannik’s voice is rough with sleep, barely there.
Carlos doesn’t answer, just tucks himself closer, letting his own eyes slip shut. He feels Jannik shift again, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt like he’s anchoring himself, making sure Carlos doesn’t slip away.
“Too much space,” Jannik mumbles, almost incoherent, like even in sleep, he notices when Carlos isn’t close enough.
Carlos smiles, barely, warmth blooming in his chest. He exhales against Jannik’s skin, breathing him in - familiar, safe, something like home.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, and Jannik hums, content, already slipping back under.
Carlos follows, held in the hush of early morning, the soft stir of Paris just beginning beyond the window, and the steady beat of Jannik’s breathing anchoring him like gravity.