The morning sun was brutally bright, striking the fresh mountain snow and piercing straight through the paper screens of the inn.
I blinked my eyes open, feeling absurdly warm.
At some point during the night, after Akira had sealed the broken balcony wall with a thick temporary sheet of hardened blue ice, we had all collapsed back onto the futon. Now I was buried beneath a mountain of furs, with Rin's tiny foot jammed into my calf, and a very solid, very warm warlord sleeping soundly on my other side.
Akira lay on his back, one arm draped over his eyes to block the light. His pink hair spread across the pillow in a messy halo.
It was strangely peaceful.
Slide. The wooden closet door scraped open.
"I am staging a protest," a high-pitched, profoundly grumpy voice announced.
Akira groaned without moving his arm. "Tell me you have fur, Yuki."
"I have standards," the voice replied at once.
I pushed myself up on one elbow and rubbed at my eyes.
