“Most people,” I muse, “have more experience with make-up sex than with near beheadings.”

He laughs. “Well, I get it now. The whole concept.”

He’s holding his mug with both hands. I am, too.

I lean against his shoulder, looking down at my tea, attempting to appear casual. “It could always be like this.”

“I don’t think so,” Snow says. “This is ‘I nearly lost my head and then I didn’t’ euphoria.”

“Nah.” I brush the outside of my knuckles against his. “I can promise you ‘this’ on a regular basis. A hot shower and lukewarm tea? Ham sandwiches in bed? This is table stakes, Snow.”

He catches my fingers in his. “Baz…” His voice drops to a near whisper. “I don’t know what happens next.”

I shake my head. “Me neither.”

He pulls at my fingers. His eyebrows are down. Like he’s thinking hard, or trying not to. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “we just go along until I feel like running away. And then I stay and fight instead.”

“Who are you fighting in this scenario?”

“Myself, I suppose.”

I nod, in part to hide how discouraged I feel all of a sudden. It won’t help to say so.

“Baz?” Simon says eventually.

“Yeah.”

“Can we take a nap?”

“Oh.” I sit up, away from him. “I mean, yeah.”

“It’s just”—he looks apologetic—“I haven’t slept since … I don’t know, really.”

“Yeah, me neither.” I take his cup and reach for the plate. “You take the bed. Fiona won’t be surprised to see me on the sofa—”

“No. Baz.” He grabs my arm. “Stay.”

“But your wings…” Simon almost never lets me sleep next to him. He says it’s because he thrashes around. “I thought you didn’t want to impale me.”

He’s making an effort to smile. “I won’t toss much during a nap. Besides, you’re pretty hard to kill.”

I take a breath to think about it, but I don’t get much thinking or breathing done. “All right,” I say out loud. Then I say it a few more times to myself. Right. All right.

I set down our dishes and look around. I don’t have to close the shades—I keep them closed all day—but I turn off the lamp next to my bed, then stand up and pull back the duvet. Simon catches on and pushes it down, tucking his feet under. I slide in next to him, and tug it up over us. It’s strange to be under the covers like this. Him in joggers, me in jeans. It’s strange because we don’t do this. We never quite got to this stage. The boyfriends-being-boyfriends stage. Naps and cuddles and wearing each other’s clothes. Simon lies on his side, with his wings behind him, and pulls the duvet up under them as far as it will go.