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She sleeps on her side, curled into herself, tight and afraid like she is still the orphan at kermazin and not the most powerful woman in Ravka. He sleeps spread out, not quite sprawled, but close. He has been many things, but never a soldier. She tosses and turns, always collapsing with her back to the wall, a child afraid of the dark. He is still, inky strands falling across pale skin, content in the easy rhythm of his chest. He is the dark - most days, there is nothing left for him to be afraid of.
She has nightmares.
So does he.
They share a bed more often than not, with carefully calculated space between their bodies. Borders of silk and damask. Territories to be won and lost between monster and saint. Some nights he needs her - tempts her, with a silver tongue and whispered promises - drawing her into the shadows as long as he can. Some nights - more rare and far more treasured - she traces forgotten names across his chest, burning him with sunlight and broken promises. They fall together, like gravity, into an endless circle of tiny truces, minuscule moments of rest in the endless war.
Some nights she lets him hold her, wraps him in her light before slipping into his shadow.
But she is always gone in the morning.