"You don't have to pretend to be asleep," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice was a low, soothing vibration against her spine. "I'll stay with you for a while. You can rest now and wake up later for dinner." His lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her temple, a seal of unspoken care.
A flicker of practical, flustered protest arose. "I haven't taken a shower," she muttered into the pillow, her voice muffled but tinged with a self-consciousness that felt oddly human.
A soft rumble of amusement passed through his chest into hers. "You don't stink," he said, as a matter of fact, his arm tightening just slightly around her. "You can shower later." The unspoken part hung in the air, simple and profound: Whether you do it now or later makes no difference. You belong here, now, just as you are.
