The sleep clinic occupied the fourth floor of a brick medical building near campus. Its waiting room contained beige chairs, outdated magazines, and a wall poster of a smiling woman wearing a breathing mask.

Noah filled out six pages of forms while Adrian sat beside him with the stiff patience of someone waiting to be examined himself.

"You can relax," Noah said.

"I am relaxed."

"You've read the fire-evacuation map four times."

"The west stairwell is poorly marked."

Dr. Mira Shah asked Noah about sleep habits, stress, alcohol, medications, family history, and late-night screen use. Then she asked Adrian what he had observed.

Adrian gave dates.

Not approximations. Dates, times, durations, the words Noah had spoken, the objects he had carried, and which mornings he had complained of pain. Noah stared as the list continued.

"You recorded all that?" Dr. Shah asked.

"After the second incident."

"That was useful." She looked at Noah. "How do you feel hearing it?"

"Like I'm living with an extremely attractive surveillance system."

Adrian turned his head.

Dr. Shah's mouth twitched. "Do you trust him?"

The question quieted the room.

Noah thought of the facts Adrian had hidden. He also thought of the line Adrian had refused to cross, even when no one would have known.

"Yes," he said. "But we're working on the difference between protecting me and deciding for me."

"Good distinction."

Dr. Shah recommended an overnight study, consistent sleep hours, less caffeine, and a temporary break from alcohol. The warm milk was harmless if it contained what Adrian claimed, but any supplement required Noah's knowledge and agreement.

"There has never been a supplement," Adrian said.

"I believe you," Noah told him.

Adrian's shoulders lowered a fraction.

The overnight study happened the following week. Sensors covered Noah's scalp and chest, making him look like a low-budget science-fiction experiment. Adrian was not allowed to remain in the room.

"Go home," Noah said when visiting hours ended.

"I can wait downstairs."

"For eight hours?"

"Yes."

"That is not romantic. It is alarming."

"I will read."

"You hate reading."

"I hate assigned reading."

Noah took his hand. Their relationship was barely two weeks old. Adrian already behaved as if leaving him alone in a medical building would violate an oath.

"I want you to go back and sleep," Noah said. "Can you do that?"

Adrian's jaw worked. "Yes."

He kissed Noah's forehead, careful of the sensors. "Call if you need me."

Noah watched him leave. Trust, he was learning, did not always look like staying. Sometimes it looked like walking away when asked.

The study showed no seizure disorder, breathing problem, or dangerous neurological condition. Dr. Shah diagnosed stress-related non-REM parasomnia, worsened by irregular sleep and academic pressure. The mouth injuries came from grinding and biting. The bruises came from walking into furniture.

"In other words," Noah told Adrian outside the clinic, "I'm dramatic even when unconscious."

"You tried to argue with a coat rack."

"It started it."

At the suite, Noah found the blue mug on the counter. Beside it stood the honey and cinnamon.

"You stopped making it," Noah said.

"I thought the association might bother you."

"It did."

Adrian looked away.

"Not because I thought you drugged me," Noah added. "Because I missed it."

Adrian's gaze returned.

"Will you make it tonight?"

"If you want."

At ten, Noah sat on the counter while Adrian warmed milk in a saucepan. He measured nothing. He knew the amounts by sight.

"You could have told me you cared," Noah said.

"I made this."

"That is not language."

"It was mine."

Noah went quiet.

Adrian poured the milk into the mug. "My father believed affection made people careless. My mother showed love through work. Food. Repairs. Rides to the airport. No one said anything they could prove another way."

"And what do you believe?"

Adrian watched the cinnamon spiral. "I believe I am trying to learn your language."

Noah set the spoon aside. "Then practice."

Adrian stepped between his knees. "I missed you while you were in the clinic."

"Better."

"I hated leaving."

"I know."

"I am glad you asked me to."

Noah touched his neck. "Much better."

Adrian kissed him slowly. The milk cooled beside them.

That night, Noah drank every drop, put in the dental guard, and left his door open.

At 2:11 a.m., he woke standing in Adrian's room.

Adrian sat up at once. "Noah?"

The sound reached him through deep water. He knew where he was and did not. Adrian crossed the room but stopped an arm's length away.

"Can I touch you?"

Noah managed a nod.

Adrian guided him back to bed.

In the morning, Noah remembered only the question.

He also found a note on his nightstand in Adrian's handwriting.

2:11 — entered my room, responsive to name after twenty seconds. 2:13 — consented to touch. 2:16 — returned to bed. No injury.

Beneath the clinical record, Adrian had added: You asked me not to leave until you slept. I stayed in the chair.

Noah carried the note to breakfast. "Why the chair?"

Adrian looked up from oatmeal. "Your rule said to return you to your bed."

"It did not ban you from joining me after."

"You were not fully awake to invite me."

Noah sat opposite him. "Thank you for remembering the difference."

"It is not difficult."

"For some people it is."

Adrian's spoon went still. "Not for me."

Noah folded the note and put it in his wallet. Adrian noticed but did not ask why.

Weeks later, when Noah's memory of that night felt frighteningly soft around the edges, he would reread the record. The dates mattered. The facts mattered. So did the sentence below them, the one that showed care could remain close without taking what had not been offered.