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For all his long-winded speeches on the wonders of modern cinema, Sam had started snoring halfway through the latest flick he'd rented. The film's plot was anyone's guess. It jumped between scenes faster than a rabbit with a hound at its heels - that most of the actors had the same haircut certainly didn't improve matters.
Steve looked between Sam's face, which was illuminated blue by the dimly lit TV, and a digital clock hanging above a nearby doorway. If his stream of seemingly endless nights overseas had taught him anything, then it was that no one was up this hour unless they had to be.
Steve grabbed the remote and paused the TV. For all the iron he'd been pumping that morning, Sam felt as if he had little more weight to him than a teddy bear. His head pressed into the crook of Steve's shoulder as he walked.
Other than a thin white sliver of moonlight coming in through a nearby window, Sam's bedroom was darker than a dungeon. Steve pulled his comforter back before slipping him underneath it. Sam didn't so much as stir.
Leaning down, Steve pressed a quick kiss into his cheek.
"You don't..." Sam's words came out slowly, his voice a groggy whisper. "...have to go."
Steve eyed the twin sized bed. It was far from the tightest sardine can he'd ever found himself sleeping in.
Steve slipped off his jacket and jeans. "Scoot over." By the time he'd slipped into bed and wrapped his arms around Sam's chest, there was nothing but worn T-shirts and brightly colored boxers separating them. "Night, slowpoke."