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Sam’s arm is heavy where it rests slung over the dip of your waist. You can feel his soft breaths against the back of your head as you slowly open your eyes. The bedside clock reads 7:17.
Your assumption is that Sam is asleep, so when you push yourself up and he drags you back, pulls you close against him, a surprised yelp leaves you. He shifts around, just enough to push his nose against your neck and to lock his arm and, with it, you in place.
“Sam!” you say, unable to stop the giggle that escapes you. “I need to pee.” You feel him shake his head.
“Five minutes,” he mumbles. You place your hand on his arm, run it over the soft skin there, his hair tickling you.
“I’m gonna come back,” you reply, turning your head. “But nature’s calling.”
For a second, you’re sure Sam has fallen asleep again. It would be a blessing, in a way - there are more restless nights than he has than restful ones. But then he sighs, his grip loosening a little.
“Fine,” he grunts. “But if you don’t come back right away, I’m tying you to this bed.”
“Tempting,” you reply, but Sam must be really tired because he doesn’t even respond to the innuendo. Or maybe not, because when you push yourself up, you don’t miss the way his hand slides off you purposefully, along your hip and ass. You grin and shake your head as you walk towards the bedroom door.
The floors in the bunker are always cold, so you hurry up your bathroom visit. When you step back into the hallway, you turn right rather than left to your bedroom. The kitchen is empty and you hum while you put on coffee. Fill two cups to the brim before you walk back.
Sam might swear he loves you more than anything, but when you return to the bedroom you see he’s replaced you with one of the pillows, slack face resting against it. You put down the coffee, then raise his arm, scooting the fluffy seductress out of the way and replacing yourself with her. You wiggle against him, get comfortable.
“Isn’t this much nicer than your pillow wife?” you ask and Sam makes a grunting sound, so you press your cold feet against his shins. He flinches, finally blinks his eyes open.
“Evil,” he says, and you nod, eyebrows raised. “Pillow wife would never.”
“Does she bring you coffee?” you ask, turning in Sam’s hold. He raises his head, one eye still squeezed shut as he looks at the coffee cups, probably picking up the smell. He drops his head back down with a huff, wraps his arm tightly around you again.
“Alright,” he mumbles, stifling a yawn. “I forgive you.” You grin, then sling your arm around him too.
Your breathing syncs quickly as you doze off. Sam twitches once, but you just press yourself closer against him. The coffee goes cold.
Sam shifts, takes a deep breath. Blinks his eyes open. The clock on your side says 8:22. He looks down at your sleeping form, the soft O of your mouth. A slow, sleepy smile spreads on his face. He leans down, runs the tip of his nose over your cheek, gives it a soft kiss. You make a small sound but don’t wake. Good. You get enough sleepless nights because of him. Always insisting you stay up when certain memories come calling, or an old wound makes him restless.
There’s not much he can do in return, he thinks, though you would vehemently disagree. He can hold you close. He can stop giving that homewrecker pillow wife the time of day. He can let you press your cold feet against him, bearing the icy pain because you insist they warm up quicker this way, and socks would make you sweat at night. He can slip out of bed, eventually, exchange the cold coffee in the cups with a fresh new brew. He can kiss you awake, having brushed his teeth on his trip into the world outside, just like you did. Both of you will pretend you didn’t, but that’s what you do - make yourselves sweet for one another.
Sweet, with a touch of mint.