not doleful

Running breath hitching side stabbing - stabbing red silver-white hair NO--

Tycho's eyes snap open. The room is lit only by the crack of light coming from the hallway and making its way under the door, but when he immediately looks to his side, it's impossible to miss Winter lying with her face turned toward him and eyes closed. She's fine. She's better than fine; she's here. Still, though, his breathing is taking its time returning to normal speed, as are his heartbeats. He sits up slowly, careful not to jostle Winter, and pushes the covers away. He rests on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor, his torso bare, and his forearms resting on his knees. Tycho scrubs an unsteady hand over his face and sits quietly in the dark.