Four in the morning.
Raining. Heavy patter of drops hitting the window. Small crystal rivers carving ghost patterns in the dim.
Radiator ticking in the corner. Soft, deep breaths skimming a ridged and twisted scar.
Long pale limbs, sleep heavy and pliant, loosely wrapped amongst those still kissed by Afghan sun.
Silence. Peace. Snatched and hoarded. Crime scenes and battlefields calling truce for a moment.
Whisper of crisp sheets, skin against skin. Press of clever lips on ravaged flesh, an answering grin.
“Go back to sleep.”