You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie
Other Parts: Housewardens; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo
Trey Clover
The argument wasn’t a loud one—no shouting, no slamming doors—just tense words exchanged with too much weight behind them. Trey’s voice had been steady, but his usual patience was stretched thin.
You, equally frustrated, had decided that the best course of action was to remove yourself before either of you said something you’d regret.
So, with a sigh, you grabbed a blanket and made your way to the couch, settling in with your back turned toward the bedroom.
Trey let out a heavy exhale behind you, but he didn’t stop you.
You shifted, adjusting the blanket, willing yourself to fall asleep. It didn’t work. The room was too quiet, too heavy with the remnants of unspoken words. You half-expected Trey to leave you there and go to bed, but then—soft footsteps. A rustle of fabric.
Kneeling beside the couch, Trey placed a hand on the cushion near your arm. His voice was quiet, steady in a way that made something in your chest ache.
“Come back to bed.”
You closed your eyes. “Not yet.”
A pause. Then, a soft sigh. Trey stood. For a moment, you thought he was giving up, finally going to bed without you. The thought left an unexpected hollowness in your chest.
But then, after a few minutes, he returned. You smelled the milk before you saw it—the faint scent of vanilla and honey curling through the air. When you cracked an eye open, there he was, sitting on the floor near the couch, a mug in his hands. He held it out to you.
“Here,” he said. “I know you have trouble sleeping when you’re upset.”
You blinked at him, heart squeezing against your ribs. “Trey…”
He didn’t push, didn’t insist. He just waited, his eyes gentle, patient in the way only he could be.
And just like that, your frustration melted. You took the mug, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. Trey didn’t move, just watched you with that quiet steadiness. Then, softly, he asked again,
“Come back to bed?”
This time, you didn’t hesitate.
You set the mug aside and sat up, only for Trey to immediately wrap his arms around you. His hold was firm, grounding. He buried his face in your shoulder and murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him just as tightly. “I’m sorry too.”
Neither of you moved for a long moment, staying there in the quiet. Eventually, Trey pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead.
“C’mon,” he said, voice low, warm. “Let’s go to sleep.”
And this time, when he led you back to bed, you followed without hesitation.
Ruggie Bucchi
The couch wasn’t comfortable. You knew it, and Ruggie knew it. But right now, your stubbornness outweighed your need for a good night’s sleep. You yanked the blanket over yourself, muttering under your breath as you tried to arrange the cushions into something remotely acceptable.
Across the room, Ruggie watched you with wide, calculating eyes. He hadn’t said anything since you stormed off, but you could feel him thinking. And then—
“You remember when you ate my last donut?” he started, voice small.
You froze, narrowing your eyes. “…What?”
“My last donut. You ate it, and you said—” He changed his voice in a mocking impression of you. “‘I owe you one, Ruggie, I swear. Anything you want.’”
You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Oh my —”
“But it’s fine,” he continued, so dramatically forlorn you almost threw the pillow at him. “I guess I’ll just be all alone in that big, cold bed. No warmth. No love. Just me. Shivering.”
You lifted your head, ready to tell him off, but then—oh, no.
He hit you with the look.
Ears drooping. Tail flicking. Wide, guilt-inducing eyes that shimmered just enough to make your resolve crack.
You exhaled sharply, dropping your head back down. “You’re the worst.”
He didn’t respond. Just fidgeted. Shuffled his feet like he was actually nervous you’d say no.
And that? That got you.
With a groan of defeat, you sighed and opened your arms. That was all he needed. Ruggie practically launched himself onto the couch, slotting himself beside you in a space absolutely not designed for two people. His weight pressed against you, his tail flicking lazily as he tucked his head under your chin.
“…Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your shirt.
“Shut up.”
His arms tightened around you. A quiet beat passed, then—
“Sorry.”
Your hand found its way into his hair, carding through the strands. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”
Ruggie hummed, content. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, sleep found you too.
Jade Leech
The couch was lumpy. Or maybe you were just too angry to get comfortable. Either way, you buried your face into the pillow, inhaling deeply through your nose to keep yourself from snapping again. You just needed some space. Needed to not be in the same room as Jade and his infuriating, calmly amused expression.
“I can’t be around you right now,” you had told him before marching off, voice tight with frustration. And for once, he didn’t push. Didn’t smirk or throw another veiled comment your way. He simply inclined his head, watching as you all but collapsed onto the couch.
Now, wrapped in a too-thin blanket, you willed yourself to sleep. You were almost there—drifting, fading—when fingers ghosted over your hair.
Your breath caught, but you kept still.
Soft strokes. Careful, reverent, as if he thought you might break. It was so unlike him, so gentle, that you almost cracked your eyes open to confirm it was really happening. Then—
“…I’m so sorry.”
The whisper was barely there. But it wasn’t the words that made your heart lurch—it was the way his voice shook.
Jade Leech, ever unflappable, sounded unsteady.
He pulled back, and you knew he was about to leave. That should have been fine. You should have let him go.
But your bleeding heart had other plans.
Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist before he could slip away.
He barely had time to react before you yanked him back—maybe a little too hard, because the next thing you knew, he was crashing onto the couch with you. A rare, wide-eyed look of surprise flashed across his face, so fleeting you almost thought you imagined it.
And then you pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Jade froze.
“I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “We can talk in the morning.”
For a long moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slow and deliberate, he dipped down and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.
“…Very well,” he whispered.
His weight settled beside you, and this time, when you drifted off, it was to the sound of his steady breathing, warm and close beside you.
The couch standoff had been going on for way too long.
“I’m sleeping here,” you declared, arms crossed as you planted yourself firmly onto the cushions.
“No, you’re not,” Jamil shot back, equally stubborn. “I am.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not taking the bed while you sleep out here.”
“And I’m not letting you sleep out here while I take the bed.” His arms were crossed now too, mirroring your posture, his sharp gaze unwavering.
For a moment, the tension held. Then, something about the sheer ridiculousness of it all hit you—both of you too annoyed to back down but too caring to let the other suffer the discomfort of the couch.
A laugh bubbled up in your chest before you could stop it. You covered your mouth, but the moment you let out even the smallest chuckle, Jamil’s eyes flickered with reluctant amusement. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.
“This is stupid,” you admitted between giggles.
He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Yeah. It is.”
You grinned. “Bed?”
Jamil didn’t hesitate. “Bed.”
The moment you both settled under the blankets, the last traces of tension melted away. His arms instinctively curled around you, pulling you close, and you let yourself relax into his warmth.
“Sorry,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.
His grip tightened, lips brushing against your hair. “Me too.”
Neither of you said anything else. You didn’t need to. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the way he held you just a little closer said enough.
Rook arguing with you was already unexpected. That he let you march off to the couch without a poetic declaration or dramatic plea? Unheard of.
You cocooned yourself in the blanket, stubbornly facing the back of the couch. The silence felt unnatural—too quiet for someone like Rook. A part of you expected him to suddenly recite a Shakespearean sonnet about lovers quarreling.
Instead, something even more ridiculous happened.
You shifted slightly, just enough to glance toward the floor—and there he was.
Laying down right beside the couch on a thin blanket, arms crossed behind his head as though he had chosen the most luxurious sleeping arrangement in the world. His golden hair fanned out on the hardwood floor, and despite the clear insanity of the situation, he looked perfectly content.
You stared. Blinked. “Rook.”
“Oui, mon amour?”
“You’re on the floor.”
“Indeed.”
“You’re going to get sick.”
“Then I shall suffer beautifully, just as you do now, exiled from the comfort of our bed.” His eyes twinkled, completely unrepentant. “If my beloved must endure the cruel fate of sleeping alone, then I shall share in their hardship.”
You pressed your fingers to your temples. “Rook, go to bed.”
“I am in bed.”
“No, you’re on the floor, being dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Ah, ma chérie, I am simply a devoted man.”
You groaned, throwing your arm over your face, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. It was impossible to stay mad when he was like this. Ridiculous. Completely, helplessly devoted.
Sighing, you reached out and flicked his forehead. He gasped theatrically, touching the spot as though you had struck him with Cupid’s arrow. Before he could say something absurd, you leaned down and kissed the spot gently.
“Come to bed, you idiot.”
His eyes widened slightly before his lips stretched into a dazzling smile. Without hesitation, he stood—and then immediately scooped you into his arms.
“Rook—?!?”
“Ah, mon amour, such sweet mercy! Allow me to carry you away from this exile!” He spun dramatically, pressing an exaggerated kiss to your forehead before striding toward the bedroom.
You should have expected nothing less.
You sighed against his shoulder, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you adore me.”
You couldn’t argue with that.
Lilia Vanrouge
You had firmly decided that you weren’t going to sleep in the same bed as Lilia tonight.
You needed space. You needed time to cool off. You needed—
Blink.
One second, you were wrapped in your blanket on the couch. The next? You were in bed.
You shot up, heart pounding. Lilia stood at the bedside, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Lilia.” Your voice was dangerously even.
“Yes, my dear?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Did you teleport me?”
A smug smile. “Would you rather I carried you?”
Oh, you were about to start another argument—
But then you noticed something. In his hands: a pillow and his own blanket.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
Lilia hummed, casual as anything. “If my beloved insists on sleeping elsewhere, then I shall take the couch in their place. I have endured far worse in my lifetime—” his eyes twinkled mischievously “—but I’d hate for you to wake up with an aching back.”
You groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. “That’s so unfair.”
“To be this thoughtful and charming? I know.”
You shot him a look, but he simply smiled. You hated how sweet he could be even when you were still irritated.
With an exasperated sigh, you sat up and grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward you. He followed easily, his blanket forgotten as he slipped into bed. Without hesitation, he wrapped himself around you, chin resting atop your head.
His voice softened. “I’m sorry, dear.”
You exhaled, tension leaving your body as you relaxed into his hold. “…I’m sorry too.”
His lips brushed against your temple, and with that, the night’s quarrel was put to rest.
Masterlist
