I toss. Then turn. Then sigh.
Luigi shifts beside me, half-asleep but still aware, always aware. His warmth is steady, the slow rise and fall of his breath familiar. But even with him right there, I can't seem to settle.
After a moment, his voiceâlow and drowsyâbreaks through the quiet.
"Can't sleep?"
I sigh again, rolling onto my back. "No."
His hand finds mine beneath the covers, fingers brushing gently. "Okay," he murmurs. "What can I do?"
I open my mouth, then close it. I don't know. If I did, I wouldn't be staring at the ceiling at one in the morning, waiting for sleep to find me.
He waits, gives me a moment, then thinks for himself.
And thenâsoftly, simplyâ
"Okay. I'll read to you."
I blink, turning my head toward him. "Read to me?"
His lips curve slightly. "Yeah."
I watch as he shifts, reaching toward the nightstand where a small stack of books sits. He picks one, flipping it open with easy familiarity. Even in the dim light, I recognize it immediately.
Ernest Hemingway.
The well-worn pages rustle as he finds his place. Then, in that deep, steady voice, he begins to read.
"You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil."
His voice is soft, deliberate, weaving through the quiet like a thread. The weight of the words, the rhythm of them, settles over me like a lullaby.
I don't say anything, don't move. Just listen.
"Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan."
He glances at me then, just briefly, like he's checking to see if it's working.
And it is.
Not just because of the words, but because it's him.
His voice, warm and familiar. The weight of his hand resting lightly on my hip. The steady, reassuring cadence of him reading, just for me.
I close my eyes. Breathe in deep. Let it wash over me.
"But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight."
His voice slows near the end, a subtle, knowing shift. I'm barely holding on to wakefulness now, floating somewhere between sleep and the sound of him.
I barely register the way he trails off, marking his place before setting the book down.
Barely feel him press a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering just long enough to make me sigh.
And thenâhis arm around me, warm and steady, pulling me close.
By the time I drift off, I'm not sure if I'm dreaming or if he really whispersâ
"Sweet dreams, Y/N. I got you."