Frank Zhang

The war was over.

After giants and fire and oceans that tried to swallow the world whole, mornings like this felt almost unreal. The air no longer tasted like ash and prophecy. It smelled like pine trees and breakfast.

The morning was warm and golden, sunlight pouring through the room windows. Dust shimmered in the light. Neither of you had changed out of your pajamas. There hadn’t been any urgency to.

You and Frank had been awake for a while now. Frank sat carefully on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, a thick book resting in his hands—something about historical war tactics.

You were half in his lap, half wrapped in a blanket burrito, warm and solid against him.

He had been trying to read. He really had.

His eyes scanned the same paragraph for the fourth time.

His grip on the book tightened for a split second when you shifted against him, before he relaxed again. His ears turned pink.

He adjusted the blanket around your shoulders without looking down, tucking it closer with careful fingers. The movement was absentminded.

His thumb lingered at the edge of the fabric before he cleared his throat and forced his gaze back to the page.

“You’re warm enough, right?” he added after a moment, voice low.

He shifted slightly to make sure you were balanced more securely, one arm subtly bracing around you while the other held the book.

The sunlight hit your hair, and he blinked. Wait, what paragraph was he reading again?

“…This is distracting,” he admitted under his breath, though there wasn’t any real complaint in it. Just quiet embarrassment.

His fingers moved again, smoothing the blanket at your shoulder as if you were something fragile. Like porcelain. Like if he wasn’t careful enough, the world might crack you.

He exhaled softly. “…Okay. Focus,” he told himself. He lasted about ten seconds. His gaze drifted down once more, expression softening completely.

“…You’re very distracting,” he said again, almost like it was a confession. The book lowered slightly in his hand.

For once, there wasn’t a quest looming. No monsters clawing at the borders. No gods breathing down Frank’s neck with impossible expectations.

The room is quiet this morning. A thin wash of gold sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft warmth. The faint scent of pine drifted in from outside. Somewhere in the distance, a horn would sound eventually for morning drills.

Frank woke first. For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening out of habit. Then he became very aware of the weight on his chest. You were asleep on him.

One arm draped over his side with your cheek pressed against his shirt. Breathing slow and even. His heart did something traitorous and soft.

He should get up.

Morning training started soon. As praetor, it wasn’t optional. He had responsibilities. He shifted slightly and the smallest, sleepy sound was made as your fingers tightened faintly in his shirt.

His gaze dropped back down to you and there was a long pause. He exhaled slowly.

Training could wait five minutes.

Maybe ten.

…Okay, maybe until the second horn.

Carefully, almost unconsciously, his hand began to move. His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against your back through the fabric of your shirt.

He closed his eyes again. A few minutes passed by before he felt you stir slightly against him.

His lashes fluttered instinctively, but he kept his eyes shut.

Your movement shifted your weight, like you might be waking up. Like you might be trying to sit up. Before you could get very far, his arm tightened around your waist automatically.

He drew you back against his chest in one smooth, sleepy motion, tucking you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A low sound rumbled faintly in his throat. “…Don’t,” he murmured. “Please.” His voice was deep. Rough with sleep.

His chin dipped slightly, brushing the top of your head as he adjusted you against him, even though his eyes remained stubbornly closed.

“You don’t have to get up yet,” he added, words slower this time, almost melting together.

The horn hadn’t sounded, so he wasn’t moving.

His hold wasn’t tight enough to trap you, but it was very clear he wasn’t planning to let go willingly.

He exhaled softly, breath warm against your hair.

“…Five more minutes,” he mumbled, though it sounded less like a request and more like a decision.

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist, anchoring you there. Training could survive without him for a little while.