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“I can go change,” I say, because I am a reasonable adult who recognizes the signs of a dragon having a moment. “Put on real clothes.”

“No.”

The word comes out faster than anything I’ve ever heard him say. He catches himself. Adjusts. Places his hands more deliberately on the counter.

“That will not be necessary,” he says.

I pull myself onto the kitchen island across from him because I have decided that life is short and poking a dragon more than a century and a half old is the most entertaining thing I’ve ever done.

“What kind of tea?”

He blinks. Refocuses. “A first-flush Darjeeling. I keep a small supply from a garden I have purchased from since 1985.”

“You’ve been buying tea from the same place for over forty years?”

“They are consistent.”

“Of course they are.” I lean forward on the counter. The robe shifts. His eyes track the movement and then return to my face with visible effort.

“I prepared a cold plate. It is in the refrigerator.” He pauses. “You were in the shower for an extended period. I did not wish to interrupt.”

“Were you timing me?”

“I was aware of the duration.”

I look at him. He looks at me. The honey jar is still open on the counter and the kitchen smells like Darjeeling and woodsmoke and him, old leather and whiskey and that golden undercurrent that makes my whole body lean toward him like gravity got personal.

“Silas.”

“Yes.”

“Your eyes are completely gold right now.”

He closes them. Opens them. Still gold. “I am aware.”

“What is your dragon doing?”

A pause. His jaw works once. “He is making suggestions.”

“What kind of suggestions?”

“The kind I am choosing not to relay in their entirety because they would compromise the dignified atmosphere of this kitchen.”

I slide off the counter. Walk around to his side and stop in front of him. His hands are still on the counter and the scales are back, flickering gold along both forearms, and the kitchen is warm and the rain is loud and I am standing in a robe with wet hair and I have never felt more powerful in my life.

“Tell me one,” I say.

His nostrils flare. He breathes in and I can see what my scent does to him. The way his chest expands. The way his fingers grip the granite.

“He would like me to carry you upstairs,” Silas says. “Immediately. Without detour.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“That is the most restrained of his suggestions.”

I put my hand on his chest. His heart is beating hard, like something is hitting the inside of his ribs. The shirt is warm under my palm. I can feel the heat of him through the fabric, higher than a human, and his scent wraps around me and my omega stretches inside me, languid and pleased and hungry.

I go up on my toes. Press my mouth to the hinge of his jaw. Feel his entire body go rigid.