just saw a tweet that said “most romantic thing in the world is the first time someone leaves u to sleep in their room while they head out early for work” and it made me think of woll. you slept over at his and wake up to him getting ready to leave for practice. you start to get up to go home, but he makes you get back in his bed and says he wants you to still be in it when he gets back. he’d be sooooo sweet and giving lots of kisses <3
suggestive content below
the morning light filtering through joseph’s curtains is soft and gray, the kind of winter light that makes you want to burrow deeper into the blankets and never surface. you’re half-aware of movement in the room, the quiet rustle of fabric and the gentle click of a drawer closing, but it’s the dip of the mattress that fully pulls you from sleep. when you blink your eyes open, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, already in his leafs practice hoodie, the blue athletic fabric hanging loose on his broad frame, his hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck.
“hey,” he whispers, turning when he senses you awake, his voice barely above a breath. “didn’t mean to wake you, baby.”
you shift, pushing hair out of your face, and the sheets pool around your waist. the room smells like him—like clean soap and the faint, cold scent of the ice that never quite leaves his skin, even after showering. “what time is it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
“early,” he says, reaching out with one of those massive hands to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers trail down your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw with that gentleness that makes your chest ache. “i’ve got to head to the rink. go back to sleep.”
you nod, still groggy, and start to push yourself up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. your clothes are somewhere on the floor, your bag by the door, and your brain is slowly assembling the thought that you should probably go home, shower in your own place, not overstay your welcome in his space—
a hand closes around your wrist, not tight, just enough to stop you. “where are you going?” joseph asks, and there’s confusion in his voice, soft and concerned.
“home,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “i didn’t want to just… stay here while you’re gone. i should—”
“no,” he says, and the word is gentle but firm. he tugs you back toward the pillows with the slightest pressure, his big hand easily guiding you, those goalie fingers wrapping all the way around your wrist with room to spare. “get back in bed, sweetheart.”
“but—”
“get back in bed,” he repeats, and this time he’s smiling, that shy, sweet smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. he stands up, all six-foot-three of him towering over you, but there’s nothing intimidating about it. he’s just joseph, your joseph, looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants to look at before he has to leave. “i want you here when i get back. okay? i want to come home and find you right here in my bed.”
your heart does something complicated and warm in your chest. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he says softly, and then he’s leaning down, both hands framing your face, his palms covering your cheeks completely, thumbs stroking your temples. he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm against your skin. “i want to walk through that door after practice and see you all sleepy and cozy in my sheets. can you do that for me? just… stay? sleep in. use my shower. eat the cereal in the cabinet. be here.”
you nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and he rewards you with another kiss, this one on the bridge of your nose, then the tip of it, then each eyelid as you close them, soft as butterfly wings. his hands slide down to cup your shoulders, those massive palms kneading gently, working out tension you didn’t know you were holding.
“you’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your hair, and then he’s pressing you back against the pillows, his hands moving to tuck the blankets around you with meticulous care, pulling them up to your chin, smoothing them over your chest. he finds your hand under the covers and brings it to his mouth, pressing kisses to each knuckle, his lips warm and soft. “my good girl. staying in my bed where you belong.”
he doesn’t let go of your hand, even as he’s clearly running late, his keys in his pocket. he sits back down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you, and brings your hand to rest against his chest, right over his heart. you can feel it beating steady and strong under his hoodie.
“i’ll be back by two,” he says, leaning down to kiss your lips, chaste and sweet, then again, deeper but still soft, still unhurried. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes warm and devoted. “and when i get back, i’m gonna make you pancakes, okay? and we can build that lego set you wanted to start. or i can play piano for you. whatever you want. but i need you to be here. i need to know you’re in my space, safe and warm, while i’m gone. it makes practice better. knowing you’re here.”
“okay,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him down for one more kiss. “i’ll be here. promise.”
he exhales like you’ve given him the world, and then he’s kissing you again anyways, a flurry of them now, unable to stop—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin, your lips, your jaw, your throat where your pulse flutters. his big hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you like something precious and fragile despite the size and strength of him.
“you’re the best thing,” he breathes against your collarbone, pressing one last kiss there, right above the neckline of your shirt. he pulls back, his thumb tracing your lower lip one final time. “sleep more. you’re tired. and if you get cold, my hoodies are in the second drawer. the gray one’s soft. wear that.”
“okay,” you say, already sinking back into the pillows, surrounded by his scent, his warmth still imprinted on the sheets.
he stands up, finally, and at the door, he pauses, looking back at you with such open affection it takes your breath away. “be here when i get back,” he says again.
“i will,” you promise, your voice small and sleepy.
he smiles, bright and beautiful, and blows you a kiss, his big hand cupping around his mouth like a child, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut with a soft sound that echoes in the quiet apartment.
you burrow deeper into the blankets, pulling his pillow close and inhaling the scent of his shampoo and cologne. the sheets are warm where he sat, and you press your hand there, imagining those big, gentle hands on you again in just a few hours. you close your eyes, smiling into the darkness, knowing that when he returns, he’ll find you exactly where he left you—safe in his bed, waiting for him, exactly where he wants you to be.
