We crawl into the bed and he’s exhausted.

If it were practical to stay up until dawn talking that is what I would want to do. He would too, but his eyelids are heavy.

I ask if he can stay awake for three more minutes and talk to me, and of course he does.

My head rests on his chest and he lets his hand stroke my arm and my back and my hair and I inhale and remember that this is what heaven feels like.

He gives me longer than three minutes. Eventually we say our goodnights.

There’s a breeze from the open window. I used to pile my bed with blankets when I slept alone, to replicate the feeling of the weight of another body next to me. Last week I took the heavy blanket off the bed.

My phone rings and I lunge for it like a cat, texting the caller that he’s sleeping next to me and hold on I’ll relocate to another room.

I creep out of bed so as not to disturb him and even when I catch my foot on his backpack and stumble and whisper “fuck” I do it all with relish. Considering him might be most favorite pastime.

I find it a little hard to sleep, I lay there and listen to him. I think to myself that normally he breathes a little louder. A dark thought crosses my brain and my hand gently rests on his sleeping back, my heart rate decreasing as I feel the rise and fall of his ribcage.

Eventually I must fall asleep.

I wake with a start and reach for my phone, sure that I’ve slept too long, but the clock says I still have an hour before I need to get up. I can’t believe this to be true. I only ever wake up before my alarm when I’m in bed with him. I look at him sleeping, I try to fall back but my eyes only want to stay open. I lay there and take him in until the last possible second when I begrudgingly go to brush my teeth.

He opens his eyes and now I’m really awake. No snooze button required.