The bedroom was still quiet and dark when Philia opened his eyes.
He didn't move. He lay entirely still beneath the heavy down quilt, his breathing kept strictly shallow and even so as not to wake the man sleeping beside him. Every part of Philia's body was painfully aware of the heavy, warm presence draped across his back. Yerel's arm anchored firmly over his waist, his strong fingers resting against Philia's stomach, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythms against Philia's shoulder blades.
Philia stared at the curtain covering the tall glass. He hadn't slept well. Every time he drifted close to unconsciousness, his mind would snap awake in a sudden wave of quiet panic, terrified that in his sleep he might roll over, shift uncarefully, or let Yerel's wandering hands touch the thick, linen bandages wrapped tightly across his ribs and chest.
