Azareel stirred beneath a tangled nest of moss and fur, limbs heavy with the weight of dreams not yet fully gone.
A twitch.
Then a low, disgruntled grunt as something sharp jabbed his cheek.
"…Ow," he muttered, silver eyes cracking open.
He blinked into the dim light—just in time to see a golden whisker stab him square in the face.
Again.
Nyxsha lay sprawled beside him, vast and unbothered, her black fur rising and falling with each deep, rumbling breath.
Still asleep.
Her whiskers twitched in her dreams, each flick landing with uncanny precision—tiny swords testing the limits of his patience.
Azareel shifted, cautiously, trying to turn away without waking her.
Another poke—this time a glancing touch to his ear.
He scooted toward the relative safety of her tail, seeking refuge among its scarred coils.
Poke.
"…I'm gonna go water a tree or something," he muttered, wriggling free from the tangle of limbs, fur, and territorial murmuring.
