The forest pressed in on them, shadows writhing like serpents, roots snapping at their feet. Lyra pressed back against him instinctively, feeling the solid heat of his chest and the steady strength of his arms around her waist.
A tendril of shadow lunged at them. He twisted her behind him, back to back, chest to chest, hip to hip. Every motion pressed their bodies closer. His jaw brushed the nape of her neck as he whispered, low and rough, "Stay with me. Move with me—or we'll fall."
Lyra shivered, not from fear but from the heat of his proximity, the press of his body, and the subtle, intimate brush of his breath along her neck. Her hands slid along his arms, tracing muscle and sinew as they guided their shadows in a deadly, synchronized strike.
The shadows responded to the closeness, lashing with precision, striking the attacking roots and vines. Every dodge, every pivot forced their bodies tighter together. She could feel the pulse of him against her back, the warmth of his chest brushing her shoulder, and the fleeting caress of his lips near her nape with each whispered instruction.
"Closer," he growled, hand grazing her waist, thumb brushing lightly against her side. "We can't afford a misstep."
Lyra leaned into him, breath hitching, the press of his chest against hers and the heat of his lips near her neck making her pulse quicken. Together, their bodies and shadows moved as one, every touch, every movement, every heartbeat amplifying both their power and the simmering tension between them.
Finally, the forest recoiled, roots collapsing into the earth, shadows curling protectively at their feet. They stumbled together, bodies still pressed, lips near neck and nape, breath mingling.
He murmured, voice low and intimate: "You feel that? The forest reacts to us… and to us together."
Lyra's fingers lingered on his chest, tracing along his muscles, pulse racing. "Then we'll use it," she whispered. "Every breath, every touch… every move."