Rody loved Vincent. He really, *really* did. But sometimes, he wasn’t entirely sure how his boyfriend’s brain worked.
Take tonight, for example. Rody had been blissfully asleep, snuggled up under the covers after a long day at work, his dreams a comfortable haze of memories and nonsense. He had the vague feeling that he was dreaming about food—there had definitely been a giant sandwich involved, maybe one with too much mustard. Either way, sleep was good, his mind was finally resting, and everything was just as it should be.
Until Vincent shook him awake.
At first, Rody ignored the light nudge on his shoulder. He was way too comfortable to be bothered by what he assumed was just Vincent moving around in his sleep. It was probably nothing. Probably. But then there was a second nudge—firmer, this time, and accompanied by a voice.
“Rody.”
A muffled groan escaped Rody as he tried to burrow deeper into his pillow. “Mmmph.”
“Rody, wake up.”
Rody cracked one eye open, the dim light from the clock on the nightstand revealing the time in blurry red numbers. 3:23 AM. Why was Vincent waking him up at *3:23 in the morning*?
“For the love of—Vincent,” Rody muttered, his voice groggy and heavy with exhaustion, “it’s the middle of the night. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”
There was a pause. Rody briefly thought Vincent had given up and maybe—just *maybe*—he’d be able to fall back asleep. But, of course, no such luck.
“It can’t wait,” Vincent said with unnerving calm, and Rody felt the bed shift as his boyfriend leaned closer, his intense gaze locked on him like this was some kind of life-or-death conversation.
Rody, still half-asleep and confused, sighed heavily and rolled over onto his back, squinting up at Vincent. “Alright, fine. What is it?”
Vincent stared down at him with the most serious expression Rody had ever seen him wear—which, given how intense Vincent could get when thinking about food or restaurant logistics, was saying something.
“If I were a mouse,” Vincent began, in a voice so solemn it sounded like he was about to drop a philosophical bomb, “would you still love me?”
Rody blinked, his brain doing somersaults as it tried to process what he’d just heard. He stared at Vincent for a moment, waiting for some kind of punchline or explanation. None came.
“What?”
Vincent didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “If I were a mouse,” he repeated, “would you still love me?”
Rody blinked again. “You woke me up,” he said slowly, “to ask if I’d still love you if you were a mouse?”
Vincent’s dark eyes remained locked on his, dead serious. “Yes.”
Rody rubbed his face with both hands, as if trying to physically force himself to wake up enough to deal with this bizarre situation. “Vincent, it’s 3 AM.”
“I’m aware of the time,” Vincent said, completely unfazed. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
Rody sat up a little, still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. “You’ve been… *thinking* about this?”
Vincent nodded. “Yes. It’s important.”
Rody just stared at him, speechless. This wasn’t the first time Vincent had come up with some wild, left-field question in the dead of night, but asking if he’d still love him if he were a *mouse*? This was a new one.
