Good. A dragon protects it hoard. You shouldn't take that lightly if you mean to live in its fire.

[ he lingers — or perhaps the better word is nuzzles, running the tip of his nose along the bridge of tim's own. lean, callused fingers trace over the rising slope of tim's cheeks, slipping light over the bone, along the brow, mapping out the shapes that make up his face.

touch is a luxury, back home, and tim has given him freedom to drown. ]

Will you tell Mother this, too?