John's hand on Rodney's chest. Refuses to be anything but post-coital in my head.

He woke with Sheppard sprawled asleep beside him, one boot dangling off the bed and his hand pressed firmly over Rodney's bare chest. When Rodney breathed, Sheppard's hand didn't quite match the rise and fall of his chest but stayed, a warm heavy pressure: so when he inhaled, it felt like he was pulling it in closer to him, pressing his heart into Sheppard's gun-callused palm. He lay there for a minute or two trying to keep his breathing shallow, and then John turned his head - a brush of soft hair, a scrape of stubble - and opened sleepy hazel eyes and said, a smile under his voice:

"Breathe, Rodney."

And Rodney did.