Neuvillette was curled against your side, his head resting in the crook of your neck, breath warm and even against your skin. His hand rested loosely on your chest, fingers occasionally twitching as he drifted in and out of a light doze.

He smelled like rain and petrichor, as he always did.

You tightened your arm around him, pulling him closer. He made a soft, content sound, nuzzling into you without opening his eyes.

Your hand drifted down, palm flattening against his stomach. It was warm beneath his shirt. You pressed gently, feeling the slight curve there—different than before. Fuller. Softer.