Charlie’s skin is warm against yours, his chest rising and falling slowly. The faint smell of smoke and dragonhide clings to him, even now. His fingers trace idle patterns along your forearm—circles, loops, aimless shapes that feel deliberate anyway.

The first rays of sunlight creep across the pillow, illuminating the faint freckles scattered across his shoulders. He shifts slightly, and you feel the tension in his muscles—the contradiction between what he says and what he does.