Maybe he was just too tired to sound strained, or concerned, or broken, or anything else that usually weighed down on his shoulders as well as the rest of him. He was just blatantly Peter -- albiet a sleepy Peter -- who didn't have the energy to struggle with himself the way he usually did.

Watching Sylar move to his side of the bed (when had it become Sylar's side?), Peter yawned, ruffling up his still damp, but no longer bloody, hair. After another moment, he finally moved, nodding at Sylar's question as he walked around the other side of the bed. "Warm enough."

Dropping onto the edge of it, Peter hesitated with his hand on the towel around his waist, and then truly decided that he just didn't care anymore, didn't have it in him to care as he shoved aside the sheets and pulled off his towel all at once before rolling under the covers. Whatever Sylar saw, he saw -- so be it. Neither of them had to say a word one way or another. It was rather like his own interests in asking Sylar to stay: as long as he didn't have to explain why he wanted him there, the answer didn't really matter. Or so he told himself.

Burrowing under the covers was enough to make Peter's eyes nearly drop closed, but he couldn't keep himself from saying one last thing, though sleep wasn't dragging him off just quite yet. "You don't have to sleep on top of the covers, y'know. It's up to you."