“I will wake you,” she murmured. She wound her fingers in his hair, combing through the curls. “Please don’t sleep in your chain mail.” Rubbing her cheek against the top of his head, she wished this one moment, safe and warm and at least a little wanted, could last forever. She tried to hold on to it, store the memory up for when he would leave.
He shook his head. “I only sleep in my chainmail when I’m out field, not at home,” he tells her. “It makes it colder anyway,” he adds after a few moments, resting his chin against her shoulder.
She giggled a little when his hair brushed her nose, and slid down to perch on his knee so she could see his face. Feeling as though it might be safe, now, she began to run her fingers over the lines of Mordred’s face, as if she was blind and trying to see what he looked like. Gentle fingertips stroked his cheekbones and slipped along his mouth, traced the bridge of his nose and shaped each eyebrow.