He does not bother to respond in any language. He just tightens his arms enough that I feel the clear message: stay.
His body heat hits me in waves. The damp chill in the alcove retreats.
There is no version of this that is casual. My hips are bracketed by the long, heavy line of his thighs, and his arms adjust without needing instruction, one banding under my ribs, the other low across my waist, broad palms spanning almost from one side of my torso to the other.
They feel like they’ve known where to go for longer than I’ve been aware I had ribs.
I let myself lean back.
Just a little.
Okay. A lot.
Being wrapped up turns out to be markedly better than vibrating alone against damp rock.
“I just want you to know,” I murmur, because if I don’t say something, my brain will start filling in the silence with every scenario available, “this doesn’t mean anything…”
He makes a puzzled sound, something between a hum and a growl.
The noise vibrates through his chest into my spine. Before I can unpack what that does to my nervous system, he does it again. This time, the sound doesn’t stop. It settles into a low, continuous vibration.
I freeze.
“What are you doing?”
He rumbles deeper. It is absolutely not a human sound. It’s more like distant thunder purring in my bones.
“Are you… purring?” I ask, voice climbing.
He huffs, the vibration spiking a little like a cat’s when you find just the right spot behind its ears.
“Okay, that’s…yeah, we’re not doing that.” I try to twist away.
He simply does not allow me to escape. Every time I shift forward, his arms bring me back as if I weigh about as much as my basket. Meanwhile, his body just… keeps radiating.
Warm isn’t the right word. He’s hot. Not-burn-your-skin-off hot, but deep, soaking heat. Like inching into a bath that feels too hot at first and then turns out to be exactly what your muscles have been begging for.
The fight drains out of my shoulders.
My head tips back, resting against the hard plane of his shoulder. Just angles and hard muscle. It shouldn’t feel this comfortable. But it does. His jaw hovers just above my temple. Each breath he lets out brushes warm over the side of my face.
“You really don’t do half-measures, do you?” I murmur. “You’re either all the way across the cave or in my lymphatic system.”
He makes a curious noise at lymphatic, like the word is a pebble he’s not sure what to do with. I snort softly.
“It’s fine,” I add, softer. “I’m just… not used to this.”
To what, exactly? The rational part of my brain asks.
Being hauled into the lap of a walking glowstick who smells like sunshine and sharp, dangerous things?
My throat tightens out of nowhere.
Absolutely not. No. We are not going to cry. That is not the vibe.
The purring goes on, steady and low. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. It burrows under my skin in a way my spine apparently approves of.
My eyelids grow heavy.
