nonsexual acts of intimacy | one
                 â : Finding your muse wearing their clothes.                      &&.     â: Sharing a bed.
   âWhatâre you doingâ?â
   It seemed like a fair question. It wasnât everyday that Maka was sprawled across his bed, covered by one of his jackets and beanies with a book on her lap, signaling sheâd been like that for quite some time. He had automatically flicked the light on when he entered his room, through the disturbance didnât so much as faze the sleeping meister, nor did the confused weaponâs inquiry stir her awake. It was 11PMâSoul had just gotten in from his Friday night drive. Typically, his drive only lasted an hour, but heâd gotten lost in his thoughts and the roads were empty. He ended up across Death City and had to find his way back, making the traditional trip stretch from one hour to three.
   Maybe she got worried and conjured up one of her âworst possible scenarioâ stories. He stayed still for a moment, watching her body inhale and exhale peacefully. He glanced over at Blair, who stayed perched on his shoulders from the moment he stepped in, as if searching the catâs eyes for an answer to his unspoken question: Did he have to sleep on the couch tonight?
   Blair didnât give him an answer. Her paws stretched out, her claws digging in slightly to his shoulder before she hopped off. She landed gracefully behind him, trotting away. He could have sworn he heard her giggles, soft and sweet, between a sing-song voice of something he couldnât make outâdamn cat.
   A sigh escaped him and he stretched out his arms, his eyes lulling closed as his hand reached for the light switch. Maka was a heavy sleeper, and attempting to wake her up would probably cause a fight. He could hear the interrogation already. Where were you? Did you get lost? Why didnât you call to tell me youâd be so late?! Nag, nag, nag. His mind was made up. He would let her be weird with her body cuddled into the laundry he hadnât gotten a chance to put away, with his favorite beanie laying lopsided on her head. From experience, he knew the accessory would make her hair a mess, which he would hear about eventually, too. But heâd let it slideâheâd be patient.
   Gingerly, he slid himself next to her. She seemed to leave him just enough room where they could both be laying together. It was slightly awkward, and Soul could feel his face getting hot as he squirmed his way under the covers, their bodies mending together as if they were resonating within her dream-waves, connecting fearlessly with the unknown workings of her mind. His arm was slid awkwardly under her to open up some room for his head on the pillow, wiggling his way until he was comfortable. She didnât move. He lifted his hand to pull gently at a strand of her hair, which only turned her head toward him, but she remained unfazed.Â
   A small pout appeared on his face, his half lidded eyes staring at her closed ones, wondering how they became this way. It was a mess of feelings, broken trust and broken promises. He said heâd call if he got held upâbut he got held up, and forgot to call. She was stupid to think heâd leave her hanging like that if something bad legitimately happened. She could feel his soul from miles awayâhow could she possibly think the worst, even still?
   His forehead was eventually pressed against hers as her legs slid over his own in her sleep. Despite the original awkward stance between the both of them, mostly his own in trying to mold into her position, he eventually found comfort in his meisterâs closeness. Their breathing was in sync by the time he fell asleep.Â
   It was his bed, after all. She could get mad all she wantsâit wasnât his fault that she fell asleep.
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