The pervasive smell of fresh coffee and the loss of what's been a constant warmth next to him is enough to rouse Michael by the time Ben makes it back. He twists around in the sheets to blink up at him, eyes half-closed and hair a riotous mess against the pillows. If Ben left him to it, he could quite easily fall back to sleep again.

"Hey," he greets, wriggling just a bit deeper under the comforter like he thinks Ben might try to drag him out from under it, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He can't remember feeling this content. Not since before the rebellion, at least, or probably before his mom was cast into Hell and, sobering as the thought is, it doesn't make his stomach clench like it normally does.