Somewhere down the street, a car honked. A pigeon cooed on the fire escape. Normal city sounds, all of them muted by the warm, tangled silence of the apartment.

You were awake. Barely. Cocooned in a mess of blankets that smelled like sandalwood and that specific warmth that only Peter managed to leave behind.

There was a faint bruise on his ribs. Fading. From yesterday's patrol.