Lyra was clinging to me—no, clinging wasn't even a strong enough word for it. She was completely wrapped around me, coiled tight like I was the last solid thing anchoring her to the world. Her arms were locked around my torso, her tail wound securely around my waist and legs, and the way she pressed herself against me made it painfully clear that, to her, nothing else mattered right now but staying close. Despite how tight her hold was, it didn't hurt. Her scales didn't scrape or dig into my skin. Instead, they were smooth and warm, her body unexpectedly soft, almost cushioned, like she was made to fit against me. Every subtle shift she made was deliberate, careful, as if she was afraid that even the smallest movement might put distance between us.
She was comfortable like this. More than comfortable—she was settled. Content. And the fact that she was pressing herself against me so openly, without shame or restraint, said more than words ever could.
