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The first thing Miles became aware of was the warmth. A solid, radiating heat pressed against his back, an arm slung heavy over his waist, anchoring him in place. The second thing was the noise. A low, rhythmic rumble, like a distant, contented engine, vibrated through the mattress and directly into his spine.
Hobie Brown was a menace. A wonderful, anarchic, sleep-tangled menace.
Miles smiled, a soft, involuntary thing, into the pale morning light filtering through his dorm window. For a moment, he allowed himself to just lie there, to soak it in. The weight of Hobie’s body curled around him was like a fortress, a shield against the entire world. The scent of him: a mix of his leather jacket, a faint trace of stage smoke, and something uniquely Hobie, was a comfort that Miles had come to crave more than he’d ever admit aloud.
Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, a sharp, insistent vibration that shattered the quiet.
‘8:45 AM – Web-slinging class with Margo. Don’t be late!’
Miles groaned. He had about fifteen minutes to get his game face on, get to the training center, and attempt to not look like a complete disaster in front of one of the most disciplined Spider-People he knew. He started to shift, carefully, trying to slide out from under the heavy anchor of Hobie’s arm.
The arm tightened.
“Oi,” a voice, gravelly with sleep, mumbled into the back of his neck. “Where d’you think you’re goin’?”
Miles froze. “Uh. Class? Web-slinging? With Margo?” He tried to inject some purpose into his voice. “Remember? I told you last night.”
A beat of silence. Then Hobie’s voice came again, muffled against Miles’s skin. “Don’t recall.”
“You literally said ‘cool, see you in the mornin’.’”
“Was lyin’.” Hobie nuzzled closer, his nose brushing against Miles’s ear. “’S the only language I speak.”
Miles let out a breathy laugh, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Hobie, come on. I gotta go.”
“No, you don’t.” Hobie’s hand, large and calloused, splayed possessively across his stomach. “Margo can wait.”
“She really can’t. She’s got a whole schedule. It’s like a military operation with her.”
“Sounds like a her problem.” Hobie’s fingers began to trace idle patterns on the thin cotton of Miles’s t-shirt. “My problem is my boyfriend is tryin’ to leave bed, and I’ve expressly forbidden it.”
“You can’t forbid me from leaving bed.”
“Can and have,” Hobie stated, his voice dropping an octave. “Anarchist, remember? I don’t play by your rules.” He punctuated the point by hooking his leg over Miles’s, a long, denim-clad limb effectively pinning him in place.
Miles squirmed, a half-hearted attempt. “Hobie…”
“Miles.” Hobie’s voice was a soft counterpoint, the teasing edge gone. He pressed a kiss to Miles’s shoulder, then his neck, the stubble on his jaw scraping pleasantly against the sensitive skin. “Stay. Five more minutes.”
The request was so simple, so raw, it cut right through Miles’s protest. It wasn’t a demand, not really. It was a need. A quiet plea that spoke of a deep, anchorless longing to hold onto something good for just a little while longer.
Miles sighed, his resistance crumbling. “Five minutes,” he mumbled, his own voice softening as he relaxed back against Hobie’s chest.
“Better make it ten,” Hobie murmured, his lips now tracing a lazy path along his jaw. “Now shush. I’m tryin’ to enjoy the moment.”
Miles huffed a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“’M perfectly possible,” Hobie countered, his hand sliding up to cup Miles’s cheek, turning his face so he could meet his eyes. “I’m right here, aren’t I?” His gaze was softer than the loud punk façade he presented to the world, a warmth in the brown depths that made Miles’s heart stutter.
He leaned in, their foreheads resting together. “Yeah,” Miles whispered. “Right here.”
His phone buzzed again on the nightstand, a frantic, angry rattle.
‘9:00 AM. You’re on the list, Morales. Don’t make me come find you.’
Miles glanced at it, then back at Hobie.
A slow, infuriatingly handsome smirk spread across Hobie’s face. “Tell her you’ve been detained,” he suggested. “By a higher authority.”
“What higher authority?”
Hobie’s smirk widened. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The sovereign state of cuddles.”
Miles snorted, dissolving into a helpless laugh that shook them both. He turned his head, capturing Hobie’s lips in a proper kiss, a soft, sweet press that promised the world. When he pulled back, his eyes were gleaming.
“The sovereign state of cuddles is gonna get me in so much trouble,” he said, already reaching for his phone.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Hobie purred, tightening his hold as Miles, a traitor to his own schedule, settled more deeply into his arms. “Now, where were we? Right. Properly enjoyin’ the moment.”
He kissed him again, slow and deep, and Miles let himself be swept away. Margo could wait. The multiverse could wait. For now, there was nothing but the warmth of Hobie’s arms, the beat of his heart against his back, and the quiet, perfect rebellion of staying right where he was.