ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛs ᴛᴏ: meowzfordayz
“Are you hungry?” Muichiro murmurs drowsily, eyelids wincing at morning’s brightness seeping through the partially shut blinds not to mention your loud movements.
“Did I wake you?” you snap, still tapping noisily at your phone, upright in bed, leaning against the headboard, ankles crossing and uncrossing.
“Uh-” he swallows a yawn, immediately attuned to your unamused tone, “No?”
“Sorry,” you exhale dramatically, carelessly tossing your phone aside, “I’m hungry.”
He knows better than to point out how he already deduced this much, opting instead to roll over, eyes finally open enough to admire your disheveled appearance: your hair ruffled and softened by sleep, wrinkled shirt loose on your shoulders, traces of fatigue still clinging to the corners of your mouth.
“You got up earlier?” he asks quietly, fond fingertips settling tentatively on your thigh.
“Period,” you grunt, “I didn’t stain the sheets though!”
Your cheerfulness snap, crackle, pops; soggy and sad by the time you finish your sentence; eyes shining with discomfort as you wiggle unhappily. He could care less about the damn sheets, his suspicions regarding your brittle temperament confirmed by your answer, focusing now on How to help you feel better?
“Join me in the kitchen, breakfast in bed, or stay and cuddle?”
With a shrug and a sigh, you tilt your head back, thumb wandering subconsciously to his jaw, pressing gently to steady yourself, some tiny part of you recognizing—appreciating—his concern.
“Cramps,” you pout, ignoring his question entirely, “And bad dreams.”
“Aww,” he coos softly, eyebrows furrowing as he scoots himself closer, nuzzling into the crook of your hip, “Wanna tell me about ‘em?”
“Cramps,” you emphasize, chin jutting out irritatedly, “I can’t remember them anyway.”
Guilt flashes across your expression as you glance at his earnest gaze, adoration evident as he kneads soothingly at your thigh, patiently gauging your flares and demands, just hoping he can lessen your frustration.
“Could I have all three?” you mumble, warmth tugging your lips into a sheepish smile, “Cuddles, cook, and then eat in bed?”
“Of course you can have all three,” he chuckles, raising the comforter with an affectionate nudge of his nose, humming contentedly as you slide down beside him, tucking yourself snugly into his familiar reassurance.
He smells of pine and lazy afternoons spent reading; of cotton and rainy evenings spent playing cards; of knowing and safe.
He doesn’t mind when you inevitably doze off, tension dissipating from your body as light snores float delicately in the air, drool dribbling cutely onto his chest. He knows you’ll be even hangrier when he rouses you, likely somewhat dehydrated too, but at least you’ll feel fully rested. It’s a finicky balance: ensuring you sleep enough, eat enough, drink enough, while simultaneously navigating your mood swings, but he’s simply grateful he gets to take care of you. Grateful he gets to return your doting and loving. Looking forward to your grumpy huffs and whines as you follow him to the kitchen; to how adorably you sit yourself on the counter, legs dangling; repeatedly offering to help just as he repeatedly rolls his eyes with a playful smirk; “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got you.” Looking forward to how you wrap yourself around his waist as he carries breakfast back to the bedroom; glasses of orange juice and water sloshing precariously in your grip; hot water bottle below your stomach, knees brushing, cramps momentarily forgotten; allowing him spoon feed you, giggling as you poke at him with your own fork; “C’mon Mui’, I wanna feed you too!”