[ Oh.

Oh, Christ, he hadn't been awake. A rush of guilt floods Gansey's chest. Insomnia is enough of a burden to him that he knows how awful it feels to be woken when you can finally get to sleep. He hadn't wanted to do that; that's dire, and selfish. What had he been thinking?

He'd been thinking about Ronan, obviously. About the shape of him, the feel of him under Gansey's hands, the scratch of his stubble, the rush of adrenaline that came from being manhandled and directed by him. He'd been thinking of all of those things, and now he's acutely aware of the way Ronan's eyelashes graze against his cheeks, the way the haze of sleep sits on him. It is easy, all too easy, to imagine himself pressed against Ronan in this state.

Stop, for Christ's sake. Awkward, he scrubs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. ]

I'm -

Jesus, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I couldn't stop thinking about...

[ This is the least eloquent he has ever been. It's like having an out of body experience. He's simultaneously fucking up, and watching himself fuck up. ]

...about you, honestly. About us. About whether we could -

[ Stop. ]

- no, this isn't the time. I'm sorry, Ronan, really. You should go back to sleep, I shouldn't have disturbed you.