The shade up here is thin and honest. A cliff doesn't lie to you. Sun on one side, drop on the other, and the sea far below pretending it isn't hungry.
He's coiled like a smug monument, wings folded, pipe glowing faintly as he puffs at it like time itself can be stalled if you nag it hard enough. Cherry smoke curls out of his nostrils. Of course it's cherry. Gods forbid the ancient terror of the world smell like anything vulgar.
I'm sprawled in the loose cradle of his tail, harem pants and absolutely nothing else. Linen would just be lying at this point. The stone is warm. The scales are warmer. I wiggle my toes because it feels good and because I know he can feel it.
"You're shedding ash on my leg," I tell him.
"You're shedding opinions," he replies, without looking.
Fair.
I watch the pipe for a bit. The slow rhythm of it. The glow. The way he pretends not to enjoy himself. Then I reach over, steal it right out of his claws, and take a drag before he can even sigh.
Cherry. Sweet. Thick. A little sinful. Gods, that's good.
I cough immediately, obviously. I am not dignifying it by pretending otherwise. But I take another puff anyway, because I am not a coward.
"Greedy little mammal," he mutters.
I grin around the mouthpiece, exhale lazily, and let the smoke drift down the cliff like a message to anyone below: we're up here, we're comfortable, and no, you're not invited.
"Delicious," I say. "Tastes like stolen afternoons and bad decisions."
"That is not the tasting note," he says.
"It is for me."
I hand the pipe back, curl deeper into his tail, and stretch until my spine pops in three very satisfying places. The wind toys with my hair. The sun paints everything gold. For a moment, nothing is chasing us. No gods. No sisters. No heroes with opinions.
Just an old dragon, his pipe, and me—bare, lazy, and very pleased with myself.
***
He exhales a slow, judgmental ribbon of smoke and finally says it.
"Why," he asks, voice thick with centuries of disappointment, "are you always half naked."
I tilt my head back against his scales and look up at him. Full brat. No shame. Zero repentance.
"Always?" I say. "That's not fair. Sometimes I'm mostly naked."
He clicks his tongue. "That was not the defense I was hoping for."
I wiggle my toes again, just because. The breeze slides between my legs like it knows me personally.
"Is this a problem?" I ask sweetly. "Because you didn't mention a dress code when you abducted me."
"I did not abduct you."
"You absolutely did."
"I rescued you."
"Naked," I remind him. "From a rock. Chained. Very nude. You set the tone."
He snorts smoke. "You could wear something."
I sit up a little in the coil of his tail, harem pants rustling, chest unapologetically bare. I gesture at him with both hands.
"You are a dragon," I say. "You are always naked."
"I have scales."
"So do pinecones. They still don't get to comment on my tits."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks better of it.
"This," he says finally, "is not about fairness. It is about propriety."
I grin. "You burned a monastery yesterday."
"They started it."
"They rang a bell."
"A provocative bell."
I stretch, arching just enough to be annoying, and settle back down. "Look," I say, "clothes itch. I travel light. And if the world insists on staring at me anyway, I might as well give it something worth the effort."
He stares out over the cliff, jaw tight. "You are impossible."
"Yet," I say, stealing his pipe again, "here you are. Naked. With me."
I take a tiny puff—cherry again, gods bless his bad habits—then hand it back before he can complain.
He mutters something about mammals and shame and moral decay.
I curl into his tail, smug as a sun-warmed cat, and close my eyes.
Problem?
No.
This is just how things are.