Lyra's POV
He pries his eyes open as if they've been sealed shut by sleep. He rubs them, yawning loud enough to break the quiet.
He doesn't notice his head is on my breasts.
"You slept hard," I say.
He notices then, but doesn't move. I let him stay there. I always do.
"How long have I slept?" he asks, adjusting his head to stay perfectly between my breasts like he used to before he took a break from it.
"Hours," I say, fingers tracing his scalp. "Long enough to scare me."
"Really?"
He seems relaxed. I tell myself it's my scent—soft, familiar—easing into his thoughts the way only I can.
It's something I love doing.
"His hand brushes my stomach. I hold my breath, waiting for him to move higher, to remember what used to calm us both—grabbing my breasts and sucking my nipples. It's about the sensation that comes with it. I don't produce milk, but that's the way he loves it.
Somehow, it's like a transaction, paying the price after I've helped him relax.
