His gaze drops briefly, tracking the movement of my leg. “You require adjustment.”
“I require a new body,” I shoot back. “One that doesn’t cramp mid—” I wave a hand vaguely between us. “—this.”
That actually gets a reaction. While it’s not a full laugh, it’s close enough, a low rumble in his chest that I feel more than hear.
“I will not crush you,” he says.
“You say that,” I mutter, eyeing the sheer size of him, the weight of muscle and bone that could absolutely flatten me if he got it wrong. “But you are… objectively massive.”
“There are advantages to this,” he replies.
“Oh, I’m aware,” I say dryly. “Currently experiencing several of them. Still doesn’t help the leg situation.”
Carefully—verycarefully—he shifts. It’s controlled in a way that makes my brain short-circuit a little, every movement deliberate and precise, like he’s mapping me out in real time to avoid causing any discomfort.
We adjust together, slow and awkward at first, until we end up on our sides, still joined, facing each other. It’s… better. A quick stretch of my leg, which pulls a bit, but I roll my ankle, andeventually my calf loosens. There’s a brief pause as the last of the cramp eases out, leaving behind that dull, lingering ache.
Still very aware of how connected we are, I dance my brows up and down. “See?” I say, a little breathless. “Teamwork.”
His hand comes up, resting lightly at my waist, not holding me in place—just there. “You adapt quickly,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, well,” I reply, my voice quieter now, the edge gone. “Got a good teacher.”
His gaze narrows slightly at that, but there’s warmth in it, clear satisfaction that threads low through my chest via the bond.
We stay this way, close and breathing the same air. It’s strange but in the best way.
“So,” I say after a beat, because silence like this feels new enough that I don’t quite trust it yet. “What did you do for fun back home?”
His brow furrows slightly, like the question requires more thought than expected. “For fun?” he repeats.
“Yeah. You know. Not war. Not strategy. Not terrifying entire populations with your existence or getting new mates to learn the art of romance.”
Another flicker of amusement passes over his expression. “There were contests,” he says. “Strength. Endurance. Tactical simulations.”
I smile, imagining him entering them. While I haven’t witnessed it, I can’t imagine Varek not having a competitive streak. “Okay, I can see it.”
“But also….” He pauses, like he’s reaching further back. “We had younglings in our care to teach about the early bond development cycles.”
“Really?” I say, realising the whole relationship counsellor gig was obviously a lot more than getting newly mated couples on the same page.
“They required distraction as much as instruction,” he continues, ignoring that. “Games were… effective.”
I blink. “Games?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of games?”
His gaze shifts slightly, and for a moment, there’s a softer emotion there. Less commander. Less warlord. More… memory keeper.
“There was one,” he says slowly, “where they would attempt to climb me.”
I stare at him. “I’m sorry—what?”
“They would compete,” he explains, completely serious, “to reach the highest point before being removed.”
“You let children… climb you?”
