Cold lead sinks down to my chest, settling in my gut, and my eyes fly open on a sharp intake of breath.

I feel like the bottom has fallen out of my world.

But it's just a nightmare...

Heart stammering, I grope for the blanket and drag it up under my chin.

"You okay?" Dani cracks an eye open and studies me blearily, snuggled against my side.

My throats rasps like sandpaper and I swallow with difficulty.

"I'm fine," I lie reflexively. Except there's a gnawing ache in my heart so palpable I half expect to see the russet stain of blood when I peer down at my chest.

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, Dani hums contently, and her breath deepens into the rhythm of sleep once more.

I lie awake, staring blindly at the ethereal folds of the thin white muslin curtains wafting gently in the circulating air. Through the open windows, the palest duck-egg blue tints the sky like a wash, and I know it can't be later than four in the morning.

My muscles are jittery, skin clammy and trembling with the aftershocks of my nightmare, refusing to grant me respite.

So I sit on the edge of the luxury king-sized mattress, drenched in a numb, hollow sensation and the stillness of the pre-dawn hour.

Slipping out of bed, I step over the script pages sprawled haphazardly across the floor as I make my way to the bathroom. I'll have to study them after dropping JJ off at preschool.

Giving up on sleep altogether, I drag my sorry, self-pitying ass into the shower and stand limply under the hot jets, gasping as the water gushes scalding hot.

After towelling myself roughly, my gaze falls on my reflection in the large, lighted mirror. I smear a hand through the condensation fogging the glass, peering into it almost searchingly.

Deep, viridian green eyes stare back at me. But they don't tell me anything, just staring at me like I'm the ugliest little shitter that ever existed.

I feel nauseous.

But I know I don't really need to hurl. If I'm being perfectly honest, I'm not sure what my problem is, except that it isn't physical.

And yet, my body seems to know, because my legs carry me out of the bedroom and down the dark hallway to Misha's door almost of their own accord. My hand reaches out of its own volition, hovering over his doorknob.

Friggin' child, I berate myself snidely. I'm no better than JJ.

But my need for Misha manifests itself in physical symptoms, my ears craving the texture and timbre of his voice, every cell in my body screaming for him to fold me up in his arms and hold me.

So I slip furtively into the dim interior, my eyes immediately zeroing in on Misha's sleeping form.

The pale sunlight pooling on the bed brings out the rosy glow in his skin, enhancing the curve of his cheekbones and the strawberry pinkness of his plump lips, slightly parted in sleep.

Heart clawing with a palpable ache to be near him, I lope towards the bed and climb under the covers. The sheets rustle loudly as I shift until we're nose-to-nose, Misha's every exhalation a blessing on my collarbone. Nestled against his firm chest, swaddled in his blankets, I finally feel at ease.

I kiss his head, burying my nose in his hair and inhaling his scent. He smells like shampoo and cologne and laundry detergent and him, just him.

Propping myself up on one elbow, I study him in the muted lighting. The warm, caramel skin of his naked torso is satiny smooth and silkier than the sheets under my fingertips. I brush the pads across his chest with feather-light strokes, careful not to wake him.

Misha's sharp cheekbones and strong jaw are rough with stubble that extends down the column of his neck. I reach out to touch the deep dimple at the base of his Adam's apple, and he stirs slightly as my fingertips connect with the satiny swell of firm muscles across his chest.

Carefully, I peel back the covers layer by layer until his entire torso is exposed.

Misha's shoulders are broad for his frame, his waist narrow. My eyes sweep over his lean muscles and back up to his achingly delicate neck as Misha rolls over in his sleep. He grumbles softly, and I'm suddenly overcome by a desperate urge to kiss the soft bump of his topmost vertebrate.

So I trail my tongue up the long groove of his spine, soft kisses flecking his nape and shoulders as I lightly stroke the tense lines of his back.

"Mish, wake up." I continue stroking, my movements rhythmic and easy, until the taut muscles in Misha's back tense and he inclines his head fractionally to peer at me with bleary confusion.

"Mhmmmph?" Misha frowns against the onslaught of sunlight assailing his bleary vision.

My eyes trace over his protruding cheekbones and long, fluttering eyelashes before falling to his full, pink lips. Slowly, his face breaks into a smile as I lean our foreheads together. "Hey, handsome." Misha's morning voice is a balm, simultaneously rough and smooth and the richest of baritones.

I close my eyes and lean into his palm as it smooths across my cheek, the gesture sending tingles of warmth coursing through my veins.

"Hey."

I like the soft, scratchy sound my beard makes against Misha's palm as he strokes me. I rub my stubbled cheek across his chest, watching his nipples tighten.

His body holds so many novelties, reacts in so many ways to being touched. I love hearing his breath hitch when I've done something that surprises him, finding out what he likes.

I rub our feet together, tangling our legs and sliding my palm down his back and up his chest and along his arms.

Pressing us closer still, I thumb the high arch of his delicate cheekbones and pull him towards me, cradling his head against the crook of my neck. Misha's breath is hot and damp on my clavicle and his hands are tight fists lightly brushing the base of my spine.

Revelling in the heat and scent of him and the slow, reassuring beat of his heart, I gradually drift off to the rhythmic tug of fingers twisting in my hair.

When I awake from a shallow doze, bright and inquisitive eyes, deep and shimmering, are staring back at me.

Misha is curled on his side facing me, his long-lashed lids sweeping over his high cheekbones. My vision zeroes in on each delicate lash as it flutters.

I pull back a little just to see him clearly, wetting my dry lips with my tongue.

"Morning." Smiling softly, I cup his jaw, brush my thumbs over the small dimples that show when he smiles, and press my lips to his in a languid kiss. I savour the soft play of lips and tongue for a long moment before breaking the kiss with a nip of teeth. Misha's pink tongue pokes out to chase the faint impression of my lips and I chuckle.

"You have to stop kissing me before I've had a chance to brush my teeth," he grumbles. I cup his face and gently thumb the crust from his eyes with my free hand.

By way of replying, I pull him in for a second bruising kiss, his stubble burning the soft skin around my lips, slick tongue probing my mouth. Misha responds fervently, contouring my torso in a bid to get nearer and deepen the kiss.

I know it's freakishly early, even for Mish, but I secretly enjoy being with him like this. He trusts me enough to let me see him all tousled and unkempt: the real man before he dons his mask for the day, and I love the hell out of that.

I scrape my nails through the scruff on his neck and jaw, and he looks up at me with a dazed smile, long lashes kissing his cheekbones.

He has never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.

"Is everything okay," Misha murmurs blinkingly, and I don't know if he's referring to my stealing into his room at four in the morning or the way I'm clinging to him with something akin to desperation.

"I'm fine," I reply blithely. I roll the shoulder I'm not lying on in a half-shrug, but my face betrays my flurry of emotion.

"No. You're not," he murmurs, clearly unsettled by the anxiety rolling off me in waves, charging the atmosphere in the room. "You know I know you better than that."

For some reason this makes me explode and I attack him with a flurry of rough kisses. I start on his forehead, cheek, jaw, and then I spread them down his neck, emphasizing each one with a mwah sound. I try to put everything I don't know how to say into the hard press of my lips against his skin.

"Jensen," Misha groans, "you should leave before the others wake up..."

I stop and just inhale deeply against him, right in the crook of his shoulder.

"Don't wanna," I grouse sleepily.

I want to be here in Misha's bed, fuck everyone else. The whole thing smells like him and the scent is so comforting and I just want to roll around in it and inhale the sheets like some kind of maniac.

But Misha is pushing me away and a growing hunger is scraping and clawing along the walls of my stomach and, anyways, he's right.

"I'm making you breakfast in bed," I blurt. To hell with my cooking inhibitions.

They say the only things a man wants are sex and food. If that's true, and I can vouch that it is, then Misha takes phenomenal care of his man; the least I can do is try to reciprocate.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I leap to my feet before he has a chance to reply and head resolutely towards the luxury kitchen.

Once there, I rummage through the cabinets for supplies, making up the list of ingredients as I go. I have to push aside a pile of Misha's reusable shopping bags, because of course I'm totally, heartbreakingly, nauseatingly in love with a planeteer.

Shit, I'm so far gone that I find his grocery bags sexy. I don't even think there's a fetish for that. 

Ten minutes and a very close call with the smoke detector later, I narrow my eyes at the platter in front of me.

It looks like shit warmed up.

The pancakes stuck to the pan, damn them all to hell, and are now brownish globs. But at least I've got a hot mug of coffee brewing which I know Misha will love.

Flinging the windows open to expel the acrid scent of smoke, I debate adding a romantic touch, but decide it's too cheesy. Anyway, he's not a friggin' princess.

At the last minute, I swear under my breath and wrench the fridge door open, hunting for the frozen blueberries.

Feeling my cheeks flame and my masculinity withering away, I press a handful of them into the top pancake in the shape of a smiley face. It's a garish, lopsided grin that looks more like evil incarnate than anything romantic, but I'm sure Misha will think it's cute.

I decorate the others with hearts.

Sue me.

When I slip into Misha's room with the tray carefully balanced in my arms, I'm graced with that beautiful, infectious smile that makes all of my effort worthwhile.

"Now I know something's up," he chuckles. I approach the king-sized bed and sit down on the edge of the mattress.

"Can't I spoil you without a reason?"

Misha assesses me with narrowed eyes.

"You had a nightmare," he concludes after a beat, easily cutting through my bullshit. "Probably dreamt that you lost me, and so you came crawling in here just like JJ and went all spider monkey on me with your hugs and kisses because neither of you can live without me."

I scowl at the pile of pancakes on my lap, wondering how does he do that and, moreover, could I be more pathetic?

Misha laughs softly, then breaks off with a wince as he pushes into a sitting position against the headboard.

"You okay?" I bite my lip frantically.

"It may be days before I walk again," he admits ruefully, "and I'm totally fine with that. Although I'm definitely topping you next time, and don't think you can make me forget with your stupid charm."

"Only if you me tie me up," I wink. "And use the Cas voice all night... I'm rather fond of it." I try not to get too turned on by the thought. Priorities.

A thin wisp of steam rises from the drink, the hot ceramic stinging my hands, and I remember. "I made you coffee. And pancakes."

"I see. Thank you, Jensen."

I feel my cheeks flush as Misha accepts the platter, careful slicing into the first pancake and smiling appreciatively at my handiwork. I try to gauge his reaction as he takes his first bite, wringing my hands nervously.

"I know they're burnt, I'm sorry-"

"No no no," Misha protests immediately, cutting me off. "They taste better than they look." He smiles at me, so I tear off a piece for myself and pop it in my mouth.

Fuck.

"They're terrible," I groan, hand flying to my mouth as I fight to control my gag reflex. "Mish, I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, relax," Misha murmurs, leaning over to kiss me on the forehead. "I think they taste...interesting. Different, but that's not necessarily a bad thing."

He takes a sip of his coffee and, if I wasn't so morified, I would find his facial expression hilarious. His entire face freezes for a moment and something like insurmountable pain flashes in his eyes as he swallows, but he quickly fights it down.

"Well," Misha sputters, setting the mug back down. "That's...this is, this is - good - really, Jensen. Um-" He closes his eyes and purses his lips for a long moment. "You put in sugar?"

"Yeah," I gulp, anxiously rubbing the back of my neck. "I put in a lot."

"Mhmm," Misha says slowly. He licks his lips. "And, just out of curiosity, where was this sugar?"

"The one in the leftmost cabinet over the sink." I scratch the back of my neck.

"Oh," Misha says softly. "Oh, okay. The sugar that says Salt on the container?"

My mouth works and I grapple for words, frozen with realization.

"I - shit."

The embarrassment that lanced trough me at the realization must show on my face because instantly he softens, a small notch dimpling his smooth brow.

"Hey," Misha murmurs, expression soft with fondness. He sets the platter aside and grasps my face in both hands. "It's fine; it's the thought that counts. I really appreciate this, thank you."

"Well," I mumble softy. "I guess I'll take this as an opportunity to smarten the fuck up and leave cooking to the experts."

"Come on," he murmurs, planting a tender kiss on my forehead. "Let's go downstairs and make some more coffee."

"No," I protest vehemently. "No, you stay put. I'll do it. I fucked up, I'll fix this. Please, stay in bed." I stand up, furious with myself. "Shit, I can't do anything right."

"Jensen-"

"Don't move." I urge him to remain seated with a frantic gesture of my hand. "Please. I'll fix this."

I grab the platter and slip back out into the hallway, furiously chiding myself.

I put salt in his coffee - and not a small amount, either! Which is probably why the pancakes-

"Babe?"

I wheel around to see Dani standing in the hallway, looking disgruntled in her blue, silk bathrobe. "What are you doing up?"

"Ugh..." I can only gape, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly, synapses short-circuiting in my brain.

"Oh, you made me breakfast." She giggles, eyes sweeping over the platter. "That's so sweet of you."

"Well, uh, yeah-"

"And you couldn't resist helping yourself," she notes, gesturing to the bite marks in the topmost pancake. "You ass."

"Sorry," I chuckle weakly.

"Babe, you can't seriously expect me to eat all these carbs. Not to mention they're bur-"

"I know," I sigh through gritted teeth.

"So...you woke up early to cook for me?"

"Yeah," I swallow. "For you."

"Hmmm. You should come back to bed," Dani smirks, playing selectively with the sash of her robe. "Let me reward you." She takes the platter from my hands and sets it on a nearby coffee table. "Don't worry about breakfast; Misha will take care of it."

"I, uh..."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not really in the mood," I confess hastily. And that scares the absolutely raging shit out of me, because as Dani so accurately puts it:

"You're always in the mood, babe."

I know I'm being a shit-bag husband, but I can't help the fact that my body is rejecting everything that's not Mish. It's craving and aching all over to tease, touch, tongue and taste every square inch of his gymnast-like body and, terrified as I am, I know things can't continue like this. Something's gotta give. And deep down, I know I have to let go. But of what, of who? If I'm being honest with myself, I already know the right answer, the moral one.

The problem is that I don't know how to live without him anymore.