She pressed her face to the broad ledge of his collarbone and let herself stay there, breathing in the clean sharpness of him, and tried to laugh the feeling loose.
"You’re not supposed to agree with me when I’m being ridiculous," she mumbled into the muscle of his chest. Her ears flicked against his jaw. "That’s the whole point of being ridiculous. You argue."
A low sound rumbled up through him, felt more than heard. Not quite a laugh. Closer to a purr that had gotten lost on its way to being a growl. "You’re not ridiculous." His fingers spread flat between her shoulder blades, huge and steady. "You want them small forever. So do I."
She tipped her head back to look up the long line of him. "You do not. You taught Frost how to sharpen a stick last week. That is the opposite of keeping him small."
"Small children fall; a sharpened stick is insurance." A moment passed between them. His pale amber gaze held hers, calm as still water. "Also, Luna keeps trying to bite the others. Now Frost has a stick, see, it’s a balance."
A laugh cracked out of her, wet and startled, and she smacked her palm against his chest, which did nothing, less than nothing, like slapping a boulder and expecting it to apologise.
"That’s your parenting philosophy? Arm the quiet twin?"
"Yes." His tail slid a slow loop around her ankle, warm weight anchoring her to the floor, to him, to now. "You’re crying and laughing. Better."
And that was the thing about him. He didn’t fill the room with pretty words or pile promises on top of her fear until it suffocated. He just wound himself around her, thumb tracing the notch of her spine, and made the world small enough to fit in the circle of his arms for exactly as long as she needed it to stay that way.
Her tail uncurled from her leg and gave one traitorous, pleased sway against his coils.
He noticed that too. She felt his mouth curve where it rested against her hair. "See," he murmured. "Not ridiculous, mine."
"You are never ridiculous," he said, the words so dry they almost sounded like a warning. He kissed her damp hair, then her temple, then the tip of her ear, each one a pledge of patience. "You see everything. What you feel is what the rest of us miss."
Somehow that made it worse; she could see the future coming, could see the cubs running wild through the jacaranda garden, Luna taller and bolder than ever, Frost so solemn it hurt to look at him, the new babies tumbling after in a pack already pulling away from her. Maybe she was selfish, but she wanted them helpless for a little while longer, wanted to be necessary, not just tolerated at the edge of their hunger and speed.
Exile must have felt the thought tremble through her, because he gathered her tighter, arms looping around her with a gentleness that would’ve shocked anyone who hadn’t known him before. She could sense, in the tic of his jaw, that he wanted to say something more, but words weren’t his best tool. Instead, he let his hands do the talking, sliding down her spine, anchoring her to the slow, deliberate rhythm of his breath.
"We can always make more," he finally said. It was the most Exile thing imaginable: no apology, so confident, just the simple acknowledgment that the world, for all its brutality, still had room for abundance if they were willing to reach for it.
The words hit her in the chest with a force that nearly knocked her off her feet. It wasn’t just the promise of more babies, though that was part of it; it was the way he said "we," like the two of them were the axis the rest of the world spun on. Like as long as she was there to love, he could keep making a future out of nothing.
She laughed, watery and helpless, and kissed the edge of his jaw, her lips barely brushing the roughness of his stubble. "Now that’s the real threat," she whispered, "me with even less sleep."
"You will sleep," he promised, and the finality in his voice made her believe it, even if only for a heartbeat. "I will see to it."
She wanted to tell him she didn’t need to be protected, that she could shoulder her own exhaustion like everyone else, but that was a lie, and he’d know it. Instead she let herself be held, just for a minute, and felt some of the ache leak out of her chest and into the warm, waiting space he offered.
Exile didn’t move to let go, and she didn’t ask him to. He stood there for a long time, body curved gently around hers, as if the two of them could outwait the world’s demands just by being stubborn enough.
When he finally eased her back, he did it with a slowness that made her blush down to her toes, even after all these years and all these mornings. He looked her over, always careful, always hungry but never greedy, and the way he touched her now was more reverence than want.
"You’re cold," he said, frowning at the goosebumps rising along her arms.
She rolled her eyes, but she let him lead her to the bed anyway, where he peeled the towel away with the same unhurried patience he brought to everything. His knuckles skimmed the curve of her shoulder as he did it, and her fox ears gave her away, flicking toward him like traitors. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
He tucked her beneath the covers, then folded himself in beside her, still fully clothed, wrapping around her until she couldn’t tell where he ended and the blankets began. His clothes carried cedar and cold stone and the faint char of ash from the fire he’d built earlier, and she breathed him in before she could think better of it.
"You’re going to smother me one of these days," she murmured into the hollow of his throat. Her tail curled tight, then loosed, betraying her, the way it always did around him.
He considered this with the gravity of a man weighing battle plans. One hand traced a slow line down her spine until she went boneless against him.
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