Morning arrived in full over the Fujimori estate, and the pale gold coming off the snow garden found the dawn dojo looking like the site of a small, very thorough war.
In the middle of it, the night's survivors still lay in formation: Quinlan flat on his back, Black Fang stretched along his chest, and Ayame tucked in against his other shoulder, ruined ritual silk and all.
The scoff had barely finished leaving Black Fang's lips when the morning began filing the rest of its report.
A terribly cheeky little sister was watching her from across the man's collarbones, chin propped on her stacked hands, wearing a grin that ran from one ear clean over to the other and had settled in for a long occupancy.
The man himself was looking at her too, yet, to her surprise, was not wearing a grin of victory. What decorated his was a mild smile of sheer happiness, asking for nothing, mocking nothing, and his hand began moving along her naked shoulder in slow, soft passes.
