#he brian

You were studying your most difficult class yet—the one you had lecture for in a couple of hours—after you begrudgingly crawled from your sheets (and your boyfriend's arms), wrapping a sweater tightly around yourself and plopping into your desk chair. 

That, of course, was forty-five minutes ago when you woke up anxiously scrambling to make sure you didn’t have anything secretly due that you somehow missed when looking…damn near, a million times. You even made Brian look (more than) a couple of times last night to make sure your eyes weren’t lying to you. 

Now, all your notebooks and highlighters littered your desk and surrounding area, your textbook opened to God knows what page at this point. 

You skimmed the chapters over and over, really hoping that it’d stick. Well, that was until you heard a soft shuffle behind you, close enough to break you from your concentration. 

“Babe,”  the voice was groggy, obviously still half in dreamland. “What are you doing? Studying again?” 

You’d been caught red-handed. Obviously, Brian didn’t think that going to bed at 1:30am, after he practically had to drag you there, and then waking up sometime before 6:00am was an ideal studying habit—especially when he knew you had class on top of it. 

And you knew that a regular sleep schedule would probably benefit you more than studying hours upon hours at a time. But, you were stubborn and determined, a nasty combination, to get a good mark on the exams. 

Nonetheless, when you turned your head back to your papers, Brian took hold of the rolling chair and pulled you back from the desk. Comically, your arms flew out in front of you as if you were getting dragged away from something you loved, desperate to stay together. However, your feelings were quite the opposite. 

His voice was soft when he spoke again, spinning you around to face him instead of your scribbled notes. His hair was messy, t-shirt wrinkled. “Aren’t you tired? Don’t you know that you should get around eight hours of sleep every night—you were the one who told me that sleeping was just as beneficial as studying relentlessly. If you’re tired later you’re not going to remember anything.” 

You pouted, crossing your arms childishly, but he just thought it was cute. 

“Okay, erm-actually, I’m actually not ti—“ but before you even had a chance to lie, a yawn clawed its way up your throat and out, cutting you off. 

He smirked. “What was that?” 

“You’re not funny.” 

“Come back to bed,” he stated, though phrased like a question, like it was actually your choice. “Your class isn’t until ten. You can get at least two more hours in.” 

And then he was ushering you up, despite the spews of your complaints, ones he just ignored, and back onto your side of the bed. He pulled the blanket over you before walking to his side and laying next to you again—like it should be, like he wanted it to be. Then, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you to his chest tightly (mostly so you didn’t escape again). And his warmth, and rhythmic-beating heart against the silent air lulled you to sleep—like it should be, like he wanted it to be. 

You had to admit, though, it was much better than studying.

Then, and only then, when he knew for sure that you'd stay, did he let himself fall back asleep too. Keeping you tied down to Earth was his top-priority; But, you knew he’d always take care of you anyways.