The first thing Fang noticed when he woke was the warmth.
Not the ordinary warmth of blankets or the late morning sun, but the deeper warmth of a body beside his, a steady presence that held the edges of the world together. Ren was still asleep, lying on his side with one arm draped across Fang's waist as though he had decided in the night that Fang might drift away if left unattended. Fang lay perfectly still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Ren's breathing, and felt the last of the nightmare's chill recede from his chest.
He had not slept well. That much was obvious even before he opened his eyes. The machine's memory had followed him into the dark, not as a clear image, but as a thrum beneath every dream, a low metallic vibration that seemed to live in his bones. Yet this morning, with Ren's arm around him and the curtains breathing softly in the pale light, the fear felt smaller.
