Lyra had closed her eyes when he wrapped himself round her, smiling— the smile turning smirklike when his hand found her boob. God, she was tired, but at the same time, so awake. Exhausted, emotional. All fired up on the inside and craving closeness while smothered in a heavy blanket of hangover. Spooning was absolutely the cure, here, she was certain. But then— pancake?!
"Oh my god," Lyra warned, turning her face back to eye him up. The twist of her torso tugged the robe out of place a little and, despite the most threatening tone she could muster, she couldn't suppress the way her mouth wanted to turn up too. "If you get syrup in my hair–"