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The sun always found them slowly.
It slipped through the thin white curtains in pale, golden streaks, gentle enough not to wake, only to warm. The light moved across the room like something careful, touching the edge of the dresser first, then the wall, then the end of the bed where the blankets were tangled in a quiet, lived-in way.
Thomas had been awake for a while.
He didn’t know exactly how long. Time in the early morning felt soft and stretched, like it wasn’t something meant to be counted. He just knew that he’d woken to the warmth of another body pressed against him and hadn’t felt the need to move since.
Newt was curled into him, tucked neatly against Thomas’s chest like that was where he belonged.
One of Newt’s hands rested loosely against the fabric of Thomas’s t-shirt, fingers slightly curled as if he’d fallen asleep mid-grip. His breathing was slow and steady, warm against Thomas’s collarbone, rising and falling in a quiet rhythm that made the entire room feel calmer.
Thomas lay on his back, head propped slightly against the pillow, and just watched him.
Morning light softened everything about Newt. His hair looked almost gold where the sun caught it, messy from sleep, strands falling over his forehead. His lashes rested against his cheeks, and his face — usually so expressive, always shifting, always reacting — was completely relaxed.
Gentle.
He looked younger like this.
Safer.
Thomas didn’t realize he was smiling until his cheek started to ache.
Carefully, slowly, he lifted his hand.
His thumb brushed the bridge of Newt’s nose, gliding upward to the space between his eyebrows. Then back down. Then up again.
It was a quiet, familiar motion.
One he’d learned by accident months ago.
Newt had been anxious that night, curled tight beside him, breath uneven and shallow. Thomas had tried everything — quiet talking, holding him closer, tracing circles on his back. Nothing really settled him until Thomas’s thumb had drifted across his face, tracing that simple path over and over.
Newt had melted into it almost instantly.
Since then, it had become something Thomas did without thinking.
And even now, asleep, Newt reacted.
A tiny exhale slipped from him. His shoulders loosened just a fraction more, his face turning slightly into Thomas’s chest like he was chasing the warmth.
Thomas’s thumb kept moving. Slow. Repetitive. Careful.
Up.
Down.
Up.
He could feel Newt’s breath against his skin, warm and steady. Could feel the way Newt’s fingers tightened just slightly in the fabric of his shirt, like some part of him recognized the comfort even in sleep.
It made Thomas’s chest feel full in a way he didn’t have words for.
The apartment was quiet. Not empty quiet — soft quiet. The kind that came from early mornings and shared spaces. The hum of the fridge down the hall. A car passing somewhere outside. The faint rustle of the curtains shifting with the breeze from the open window.
Newt made a small sound in his sleep, something halfway between a sigh and a mumble, and pressed closer.
Thomas stilled for a second, worried he’d woken him.
But Newt didn’t open his eyes.
Instead, he tucked his face more firmly into the curve of Thomas’s neck, one knee nudging forward under the blanket until it rested lightly against Thomas’s leg. Like he was anchoring himself there.
Thomas’s hand moved from Newt’s face to the back of his head, fingers sliding gently into his hair.
“Morning,” Thomas whispered, even though Newt wasn’t awake.
It was just something he liked to say.
Newt’s response was a soft huff of breath against his collarbone.
Thomas let out a quiet laugh under his breath.
There was something about mornings like this that made everything feel simple. Like the rest of the world didn’t exist yet. No responsibilities. No noise. Just warmth and sunlight and the steady rise and fall of the person you cared about breathing against you.
He shifted just slightly, careful not to disturb him, and pulled the blanket up over Newt’s shoulder where it had slipped down.
Newt always ran cold.
Even in summer, he’d curl into Thomas in his sleep, searching for warmth without realizing it. It had become so normal that Thomas barely noticed anymore — the weight of him, the way he fit perfectly into the space under Thomas’s chin.
Like that space had been made for him.
Thomas brushed his thumb along Newt’s nose again.
Up.
Down.
Newt’s face softened even more.
And then, slowly, his eyes started to open.
Not all at once. Just a small, sleepy blink, lashes fluttering before settling again. His brow knit slightly, like he was still halfway in a dream, trying to figure out where he was.
Thomas kept his voice low.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Newt made a small, confused noise, his hand tightening slightly against Thomas’s shirt.
For a moment, his eyes moved around without focusing. Then they landed on Thomas.
And something in his face changed.
The tension slipped away.
“Oh,” Newt mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Hi.”
Thomas smiled, softer now.
“Morning.”
Newt didn’t move away. If anything, he pressed closer, tucking his face back against Thomas’s chest, eyes drifting shut again.
“Too early,” he muttered.
Thomas huffed out a quiet laugh.
“It’s almost nine.”
Newt groaned softly and nudged his forehead against Thomas like that was personally offensive.
“Rude,” he said, words slurred with sleep. “You’re supposed to let me sleep forever.”
Thomas’s hand slid back into his hair, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp. Newt immediately melted further into him, his shoulders dropping.
“I tried,” Thomas said. “But the sun’s got other plans.”
Newt made another soft, sleepy noise and shifted just enough to get comfortable again. One leg tangled more securely with Thomas’s under the blanket. His hand slid up, resting flat against Thomas’s chest this time, right over his heartbeat.
Thomas could feel his fingers twitch slightly with each breath.
He stayed very still.
Newt’s eyes opened again, slower this time. More aware. He watched Thomas for a second, gaze still hazy with sleep, then lifted his hand just enough to touch Thomas’s face.
His thumb brushed over Thomas’s cheekbone once. Soft. Thoughtless.
“You were doing the thing,” Newt said quietly.
Thomas blinked. “What thing?”
Newt nudged his nose gently with the back of his fingers.
“This,” he mumbled. “The… nose thing.”
Thomas felt his face warm slightly.
“Oh.”
Newt’s mouth curved faintly, eyes still half-lidded.
“Helps,” he said. “Makes it feel… quiet.”
Thomas didn’t ask what that meant.
He just nodded a little and let his thumb drift back to the bridge of Newt’s nose, tracing the same slow line again.
Newt closed his eyes immediately.
“Yeah,” he whispered, almost to himself.
The light had moved farther into the room now, catching the white sheets and turning them gold. The curtains shifted again in the breeze, and the air smelled faintly like the vanilla lip balm Newt always kept on the nightstand.
Thomas had bought it for him months ago.
Newt used it constantly. The scent lingered on everything — the pillows, the blankets, the collar of Thomas’s hoodie that Newt kept stealing and never giving back.
Sometimes Thomas caught that same smell when Newt kissed his cheek, soft and quick, like it was nothing.
This morning, it was everywhere.
Newt tilted his head slightly, still mostly asleep, and pressed a small, absentminded kiss against the center of Thomas’s chest through his shirt.
Then he settled again, breathing evening out.
Thomas swallowed, his hand still resting gently against Newt’s face.
The world felt so quiet.
They could lay there forever.