She's right; it's not quite like the cave.
The rain is quiet, muted by the dwelling and their blanket, but it's familiar in its ambience, and they lie together, lost in the story.
"Okay to turn?"
"Yes," he murmurs.
The small light flickers, and Sesshoumaru leans closer, seeking out the lingering notes of jasmine in her hair.
She glances at him, curious. "What is it?"
Memories of their bath—of her in his lap, head thrown back and panting his name—wash over him, and he glances down at the blunted tips of his claws.
"Sesshoumaru?"
A smile. "It is nothing."
