As he settled against the nest of freshly plumped pillows, drawing the borrowed blankie up to his face, Ronan felt tired. He felt so, so tired, but sleep seemed so unobtainable. There, lingering on the outskirts, but just slightly out of his reach.

He watched the figure who sat at the end of the bed through hooded eyes, a blurred design that seemed to distort more and more the longer he left it between blinks. He liked Deacon, he decided. The feeble stability he now felt, the shred of comfort he'd found, it was all down to him. He'd sat with him. He'd helped him wash up and change out...