Vegaspete Oneshort

morning

Vegas’s voice was still husky from sleep, soft in the early quiet of morning. His arm was heavy but protective around the smaller body pressed against him. Pete’s hair tickled his chin, and when Vegas leaned down to kiss the crown of his head, Pete only groaned lightly and burrowed closer into his chest like a stubborn cat.

“Mm… not yet,” Pete mumbled, half-asleep, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Vegas’s shirt as though to anchor him in place.

Vegas chuckled under his breath, rubbing gentle circles on Pete’s back. “You’re supposed to say good morning to your husband, not suffocate him in cuddles.”

Pete didn’t answer—he only nuzzled deeper into the crook of Vegas’s neck, warm breath brushing his skin. His silence spoke louder than words: he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Vegas tilted his head, amused, but his chest swelled with that ridiculous tenderness Pete always drew out of him. “Fine,” he whispered, pressing a lazy kiss to Pete’s temple. “Stay there. I’ll let you cling as much as you want.”

Pete hummed softly, a tiny smile tugging at his lips even in half-sleep, and Vegas couldn’t help but grin, already resigned to being held captive in his own bed by the man who owned his heart.