“Rwy’n flin,” Summer says again. She slides back up alongside him and rests her head on his shoulder. “I’ll be good.”
Mordred kisses the top of her head. “I know,” he says, rubbing her arm with his hand, “it will.”
And then her stomach growls and the whole moment is ruined. “Are you sure,” she says mournfully, looking down, “I can’t bite you just a little bit?”