I woke up with my face smushed against something warm, leathery, and smugly immovable.
The Dragon's tail.
Again.
I blinked blearily, snorted out a bit of my own drool, and groaned into his scales. "Ugh. Not this again."
His tail was the perfect temperature. Like a sun-baked rock. Except it pulsed slightly, and smelled faintly of ozone and ego.
I didn't remember falling asleep there. But I never remember falling asleep there. Somehow, by some dark pact or stupid instinct, I always ended up curled in that exact spot—curled up like some stray tavern cat that's claimed the comfiest chair in the room.
And above me? Of course. The wing.
His massive, ridiculous, overprotective wing was draped across me like a tent built by a lovesick bat.
"Seriously," I mumbled to no one. "It's like being hugged by a canopy."
He didn't answer. Just let out a smoky huff. I felt it in his chest, reverberating through my pillow. Haughty bastard was probably pretending to sleep.
I peeked under the edge of the wing. Fire was mostly embers. Sky still dark. Chill in the air. But me? Toasty.
Too toasty.
I kicked one foot free from the ratty old blanket I'd stolen from gods-know-where. The thing smelled like a goat had farted on a campfire. But it was mine. Mine to sleep under. Mine to drape. And since I'd been using his tail as a mattress, I'd thrown the blanket over him out of pure fairness.
Balance.
Sharing.
I was a giver.
The blanket had slipped halfway down his back, barely covering one scale. Completely useless. But still.
"You're welcome," I muttered.
He said nothing. Typical.
I shifted, burrowing deeper into my scaly nest. I could feel his heartbeat—slow, steady, smug.
I should've moved. Sat up. Pretended to be strong and independent and all those other things I sometimes lie about being.
Instead, I sighed.
And let myself fall back asleep with a smile on my lips.
Disgusting.
Domestic bliss.
But, gods help me, it was warm.