He breathed.
The slow, deep rhythm of a man who has been thoroughly unconscious and is returning to the surface in stages — awareness arriving before movement, the senses waking one at a time in the specific, unhurried order of genuine sleep rather than performance.
Warmth first.
Then softness.
Then the weight of something against his face — against his cheek and his jaw and his mouth — the specific, dense, yielding warmth of something that pressed from both sides simultaneously, warm and full and faintly fragrant with the soap-and-cooking smell of a woman who has been awake for hours.
His hand moved.
Before his eyes opened.
Before he was fully present enough to make a decision about it — the hand found the softness, fingers spreading, palm pressing in, and felt the full, generous weight of it compress around his grip.
The sound she made was soft. Surprised. The small, involuntary exhale of a woman who was not expecting to be groped while providing a shoulder.
"Hn~—"
