The bathroom door creaked open with a soft click, and Vyan stepped out, towel-drying his damp hair with one hand. His skin was still flushed from the heat of the bath, his chest bare, droplets of water trailing down to the waistband of his pants. His wine-red eyes scanned the room, and there she was.
Iyana had already taken the bed, curled up at the farthest corner like she was clinging to the edge of a cliff. Her back was turned to him, her presence distant and silent, like she had drawn a line in invisible ink and dared him to cross it.
Vyan quirked a brow, arms crossing loosely over his chest. "May I ask," he drawled, "why are you hanging off the edge like the bed might explode if you use the center?"
From her cocoon of duvet came a voice, clipped and calm: "If you don't want to sleep on the couch, don't ask."
Vyan was surprised. Oof. That was cold, even for her.
