Jian blinked his eyes open and squinted into the soft morning light seeping through the artificial panels above. The room was quiet, the soft hum of the generator the only background sound. His body felt well-rested for once, muscles relaxed, breath steady. But the warmth that blanketed him wasn't just the sheets.
His gaze shifted—and landed on the man sleeping beside him.
Xing Yu.
He lay perfectly still, almost too still. His arms were folded neatly over his chest, legs straight like he was in a damn casket. His long white hair fanned across the black pillow like snow spilled across night. His sharp, elegant face was free of its usual tension, lips parted slightly in sleep.
And then Jian looked down at himself.
Oh no.
One of his legs was sprawled lazily across Xing Yu's lap. His arm—his entire arm—was draped across the man's chest like some clingy little koala. His cheeks flared a deep red, heart thudding with panic as he slowly tried to retract himself from the crime scene.
