nyctophilia
[ nĭk′tə-fĭl′ē-ə ]
n.
a preference for the night or darkness
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"Oh we're definitely killing them then, I need to pad my stats anyway."
"You sound like a serial killer."
"I know, I still wonder why...
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Yuri's POV
I tossed and turned in bed, tugging the sheets closer around myself, though they did little to shield me from the cold air circulating in the room. My hands instinctively moved to cover my arms, seeking any semblance of warmth. The chill was a reminder--a sharp, unrelenting one--that this wasn’t a safe place. That this wasn’t somewhere I could afford to let my guard down too much.
But my mind didn’t listen to reason. The ghosts of my nightmares were still lingering, shadows at the edge of my thoughts. If I didn’t wake up fully, they’d return. They always did.
I ran a hand tiredly through my mess of hair, my fingers catching on a few tangles. One eye cracked open, searching for the faint blue glow of the digital clock on the bedside table.
10:24 am.
Too early, too late—it didn’t matter. I let my eye drift closed again, adjusting myself to the fleeting comfort of the mattress. The bed was soft and warm, but something was missing. My foot reached out blindly, brushing over the cold fabric of the sheets in search of the blanket. It was nowhere to be found.
The air conditioner hummed softly in the background, a cruel reminder of why I was freezing in the first place. I groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow, and turned to the other side, burying my face into the mattress. Just a few more minutes, I told myself. Five, maybe ten. Yesterday’s hike through rough terrain had drained me completely; my body still ached from the exertion.
I blindly reached my hand out to grasp the blanket again. But instead I felt something else...like a shirt or-
My eyes snapped open, and I immediately let go, withdrawing my hand like I’d been burned. My gaze darted up, confirming my suspicion. My fingers had been tugging on Choi’s shirt. Of course, he hogged all of the blanket. What else did I expect.
I narrowed my eyes at his sleeping form, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looked completely at ease, his face soft with the kind of peace that was utterly infuriating in the moment. A soft snore escaped his lips, and I realized, with growing irritation, that one of his arms was draped over my waist.
Why the hell was he touching me.
I reached for the blanket again, determined to reclaim it from his selfish grasp. The movement caused him to stir, though, his brows knitting together as he shifted closer. The next thing I knew, his arm tightened around me, and his face pressed gently against my chest.
I froze, my mind racing. What the hell? Was he cold? Seeking warmth? Even when he had the entire blanket over him? Did he even realize what he was doing?
