Aelorian woke to heat.

Not the kind that came with the inferno of Seredane’s fire-blessed temple or the flares of fury he’d once breathed into an elder’s face, scorching the poor man to a crisp. No, this heat was of the body, earthy and real, stitched through with the steady pulse of something massive and alive. A heat that hummed in rhythm with the thump of a chest against his back, a warmth that seeped through muscle and bone and refused to be ignored.

Gods, it felt…safe. In a way, he couldn’t remember feeling in a long time, not since he had been a child running barefoot through moonlit halls, or the few stolen hours where Seredane’s fire hadn’t been dancing dangerously close. Safe—but the word set off an unfamiliar flutter in his chest, like a bird caught in a glass cage.

His mind wandered, painting soft, illicit images of a future he wasn’t meant to imagine: long summer naps pressed into meadow grass, whispers over campfires under cold stars, the slow, steady thump of a heartbeat pressed close enough to share. The faint scent of pine and damp earth intertwined with the warmth under his cheek, teasing him with comfort that seemed almost criminal.

He let himself sink deeper, eyes closing again, half-wrapped in someone else’s presence, a body that was too large, too solid, impossibly warm. He let his fingers rest, soft and idle, over the back of a hand braced on his stomach—calloused, scarred, far too large—and a flicker of suspicion stirred.

Suspicion of what it meant.

Suspicion of who it belonged to.

The thought sent his stomach plummeting, twisting into knots that threatened to curl him in on himself. His eyes snapped open. Dawn had begun bleeding through the cracks in the cave walls, soft silver light brushing the edges of stone and the odd glint of dew on mushrooms. Somewhere, a bird trilled with casual indifference, uncaring that the world was still half-asleep and full of unresolved tension.

And on top of him was the ogre.

Thorne, shirtless and snoring lightly, had one arm slung out like a fallen tree trunk, the other heavy across Aelorian’s midsection. The sheer size of him was catastrophic, absurd, frighteningly intimate—pinned beneath him, Aelorian could feel the raw pulse of muscle, the warmth radiating from chest to back, the gentle, terrifying curve of his thigh brushing in ways that should have been illegal under Moonblood law.

He froze, a delicate statue trapped beneath a mountain of grunting, farting, unconscious chaos. His robes tangled around his legs, brushing against moss, dew, and something far more scandalous. His mind was a storm of panic, embarrassment, curiosity… and something else, a traitorous spark of dangerous desire that made his ears heat.

Okay. Breathe, Aelorian. You’ve been in far worse situations than this.

The ogre shifted. A massive hand slid across his torso, slow, deliberate, finally brushing over the sacred terrain of his left nipple.

Which, to remind him, was protected by Elven Decree 5.47, Section C: No sovereign or scion of Moonblood shall bear the Sacred Aereola in any clandestine setting, union, or pageant without express verbal consent.

Aelorian’s brain was already drafting a speech to the High Council, legal defense by day, demand for reparations by night, when the thumb circled absently, deliberately, teasing the fine line between improper and… worse.

Stars save him.

“Ogre,” he whispered, a quaver in his voice that betrayed more than he liked.

The rumble that returned wasn’t a word. Not really. Just a vibration through bone, a purr, the lazy satisfaction of a predator certain of its prey. “Mmm… warm little thing,” Thorne slurred. “Could hold you forever.”

Aelorian froze mid-inhalation. His mind screamed. His tailbone pressed into moss. Every nerve ended in delicate disaster.

He did what any self-respecting elven prince would do.

He screeched.

“GET OFF ME, YOU HEAT-STROKING, NIPPLE-HARASSING OGREISH LOUT!”

Thorne startled, groaning, lifting his head, tusks bared in confusion, to find the scalded, horrified, scandalized face of Aelorian peering up at him like a moonbeam betrayed. “Whuh—who’s touchin’ nipples?”

“You are! You absolute cretinous slab of man-meat!” Aelorian shrieked, rolling, clawing at the robes as though sheer will could restore his dignity. “I have been manhandled! Cup-caked! DEFLOWERED IN MY SLEEP!”

“I… I wasn’t… You were holding onto me like a clingy little moon-faced brat!” Thorne bellowed, flustered, a hand straying to scratch at his own hair.

“I was not!” Aelorian countered, his voice trembling with a mixture of indignation and betrayal. “You muttered about honeymooning in the Fungal Wastes!”

“That’s not even a place!” Thorne objected, horrified. “Why would I—?!”

“You tell me!” Aelorian jabbed a finger, scandalized. “You also said something about biting me where the stars don’t shine. I quote: ‘Gonna make a proper meal of you, sweetheart.’”

“I never said that!” Thorne protested, voice strangled, ears pink as dawn.

“I’m embellishing,” Aelorian admitted, with the dignified lift of a chin. “Which is a proud and sacred elven tradition!”

They stared, panting, wild-eyed, tension tangling every limb. Then a low, monstrous growl echoed around the cave.

Thorne’s hands dropped. “Wasn’t me.”

Aelorian’s stomach rumbled again in chorus with the bats overhead.

Thorne stretched, muscles rolling beneath dawn light. “Food,” he said gruffly. “Before you waste away into a more fragile shade of scandal.”

“I am not fragile,” Aelorian protested. “I am delicate. That is very different.”

“Sure. Come on, Mud Petal.” Thorne hauled himself up like a boulder collapsing in slow motion. “Let’s see if the forest has anything not poisonous, not cursed, and not likely to bite back.”

Aelorian wrinkled his nose. “You expect us to forage in the swamp for breakfast? Roots? Beetles? Like some common swine rooting for truffles in the muck?”

Thorne raised a brow, hair sticking at impossible angles. “What did you think? Summon pancakes from the Feywild with interpretive dance?”

The elf’s lip curled in disdain. “If you keep rocks in your armpits, I assumed you had… I don’t know, ogre provisions.”

Thorne snorted. “Nope. Not even jerky in my loincloth, prissy garden ornament.”

Aelorian waved a dismissive hand, swatting at a mosquito the size of a sparrow. “Fine. Foraging it is. But if I touch a spider, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

"You promise?" Thorne yawned and smacked his lips, a living shadow swallowing the soft silver light of the cave as he lumbered toward the entrance. The morning sun hit him in full, brushing the tops of the trees with gold, but Thorne, colossal and ungainly, barely noticed. The cave trembled slightly as he stepped out, boots crunching on gravel, moss, and the occasional unlucky pebble that screamed under his weight.

“Come on, elf!” he called back, his voice a low rumble rolling down the walls of the cave mouth like distant thunder. “Stop primping!”

Aelorian froze where he'd been fussing over himself. His skirts were askew, tangled, rebellious. One sleeve hung loose, brushing against the damp stone. His hair—long, dark, and impossibly soft—had escaped every braid and twist, now sticking to his damp neck in a tangled halo of humiliation. He glared at himself in a sliver of reflective stone, wincing. “I am not primping!” he hissed to the empty cave, though his voice carried into the forest like a melodic alarm. “I am carefully… adjusting for… modesty and decency!”

Thorne’s shadow fell over him again as the ogre turned, hands on his hips, tusks bared in a grin—or was it a warning? “Modesty? In the middle of the swamp?” His voice carried that dangerous lilt of amusement. “You mean the forest is gonna faint at the sight of your thighs?”

Aelorian stiffened, flinging a hand to tug the hem of his ruined robes over his legs. “I am not… fainting! This is—” His words dissolved into a squeak as Thorne reached down, enormous fingers brushing a rogue lock of hair from Aelorian’s cheek, knuckles grazing the fragile edge of his pointed ear.

The elf nearly toppled backward. “I—Stars! Keep your… dirty mitts… to your—”

“Relax, Mud Petal,” Thorne said with a rumbling chuckle, finally letting go, though his gaze lingered in a way that made Aelorian’s pulse jolt. “We’ve got daylight, the forest, and whatever edible nonsense it’s hiding for breakfast. Move before I have to carry you again.”

Aelorian blinked. Slowly. Tremulously. He eyed the sun-dappled forest ahead, the moss slick with dew, the occasional mushroom poking shyly through fallen leaves, and the utterly terrifyingly large ogre waiting with all the patience of… well, a cat about to crush a mouse for fun.

“Ogres,” he muttered, more to himself than to Thorne. “So subtle. So refined. A delight to behold. Typical zero respect for beautiful elves."

“You talk a lot for someone I could toss like a sack of turnips,” Thorne replied, scratching at his jaw. “Come on.”

And with that, he stalked into the forest, sun glinting off his broad shoulders, the earth trembling faintly with each step, leaving Aelorian to follow like a moonbeam caught in a hurricane.