Morning reached Trafalgar's room without asking permission.
The mana lamps had dimmed sometime during the night, leaving the first pale light from the academy windows to creep across the floor, over the discarded clothes, the desk full of ignored papers, and the bed where Trafalgar had not slept alone for once.
He slept bare as he usually did, though this time Cynthia was pressed against him, one arm thrown over his chest as if she had claimed the place in her sleep and intended to defend it from the entire academy. Her warm skin was half-hidden beneath the sheets and the loose spill of her long white hair, which had spread everywhere during the night with the invasive confidence of a victorious army.
One strand had somehow curled around Trafalgar's face.
He lifted one hand and peeled it away with the patience of a man dealing with yet another enemy that had found him in bed.
