[Lavinia's POV—Royal Chambers]
My head rested on Papa's arm as he read through yet another impossibly long scroll. My cheek squished slightly against his solid muscles—ugh, unfair. Even his biceps felt like they did push-ups while signing decrees.
His scent—warm, familiar, like parchment, polished steel, and something faintly sweet (possibly royal stress sweat and sugar almonds)—wrapped around me like a safety net I had no intention of escaping from.
He didn't speak.
Just let me stay there, curled against him like a lazy, emotionally unstable cat in silk. His other hand occasionally reached up and stroked my hair, gently and rhythmically, and he didn't even realize he was doing it.
And I didn't remind him.
Not because I was too comfortable.
But because I needed it.
I needed this.
The Papa. The warmth. The quiet. The closeness. The fragile illusion that maybe—just maybe—the world still had some softness left.
