The exhaustion from the day's near-disaster had finally caught up with Milo. After the window incident and Elias's fierce, protective embrace, the tension had slowly bled away, replaced by a lingering, pleasant quiet. Milo had promised to clean the window tomorrow, but for now, the couch seemed to be the most appealing place on earth. He curled up on the cushions, the late-afternoon sun a warm blanket on his skin, and within minutes, he was sound asleep.
Elias had been in the armchair, silently reading his book, but his gaze kept flicking to the sleeping form on the couch. He had watched as Milo's head nestled into the pillows, his usual energetic restlessness finally stilled. The soft rise and fall of Milo's chest was a gentle rhythm in the quiet room. Elias's heart, which had been a frantic drum a few hours earlier, now beat with a calm, steady rhythm, mirroring Milo's.
As Milo shifted in his sleep, his t-shirt rode up, just a little. Not enough to fully expose his stomach, but just enough to reveal the subtle, pale curve of muscle that disappeared beneath the hem.
Elias froze.
His eyes, which had been simply observing, widened. A sudden, violent heat surged through him, spreading from his chest to his cheeks, painting them a deep, familiar crimson. His wolf-like ears, usually a barometer of his inner state, flattened completely against his head, a reaction of pure, unadulterated mortification.
He had, of course, seen Milo's body before, in glimpses and in that single, agonizingly intimate moment in bed. But seeing it now, so innocently and so vulnerably, was a different kind of torment. Milo's sleeping face was utterly relaxed, all the nervous energy and sarcastic wit gone, leaving behind only the soft planes of his cheeks, the dark sweep of his lashes, and the faint, sweet curve of his lips.
He was so… so very cute.
Elias's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt the same breathless panic as when he had almost let Milo fall, but this time, it was a quiet, internal implosion. He was utterly flustered by the sight of Milo's sleeping face, a face so open and trusting. He wanted, with a fierce, quiet intensity, to reach out and touch the soft curve of Milo's cheek. He wanted to straighten the shirt that was so casually revealing such a beautiful sight.
He slowly, carefully, rose from the armchair. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if he were walking a tightrope. He approached the couch, his deep green eyes fixed on Milo. He stood there for a long moment, a statue of torment and affection. His hand, which had ached with a possessive strength to protect Milo just hours ago, now trembled slightly.
He reached out a single finger, hovering just over the edge of Milo's shirt. He wanted to gently tug it down, to protect this private moment, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The intimacy of it, the quiet, vulnerable trust of it, was too much.
Instead, his hand, still hovering, trembled again. With a soft, pained sigh that only a deeply flustered half-dragon could make, Elias slowly, reluctantly, pulled his hand back. He couldn't touch him. He couldn't disturb him. He could only watch.
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, simply observing the innocent beauty of Milo in his sleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the soft curve of his exposed stomach. The simple sight of Milo's abs, and the peaceful innocence on his face, was a hundred times more overwhelming than any of the "inferno" moments in the bed.
With one last, longing look, Elias walked away, his steps muffled. He went back to the armchair and sat, but he didn't pick up his book. He just sat there in the late afternoon sun, his heart filled with a powerful, unspoken affection, watching over the young human who, in his innocence, had captured the heart of a proud, ancient being in their big apartment.