Someone in his bed created a new centre of gravity. Mohinder was drawn to the heat, to the feel of a solid weight against him. Yes, that meant getting comfortable at Matt's expense, fitting himself back against the other man's chest with precision even as he kicked the blankets up enough to cover socked feet. At least while facing away from the detective, Matt didn't have to worry about the Indian holding him again. No matter how strange it might be to have another man's backside so close to your hips, of course.

Too exhausted to dream, the undercurrent of Mohinder's sleeping thoughts were more mundane than usual. He dreamed of socks and folding laundry -- something normal. After the last few weeks, all he wanted was to return to the life that they'd had.

Mohinder woke a few hours later, the commotion of Brooklyn momentarily terrifying before he settled into the rhythm of traffic again, honking horns, people shouting.

The clock told him it was two in the morning but his stomach reminded him that Matt's suggestion about eating really ought to be heeded.

Did anyone deliver pizza this late, he wondered, waiting on his bladder to force him out of bed before moving. Despite his injuries, for which he really ought to take some medication, he feels good. Relieved. Safe.