Peter woke to the gentle sounds of a soft jazz piano and the sizzle of something rich and buttery in a pan. Consciousness returned slowly, wrapped in a deep, residual peace he hadn't known in years. He was on the large living room sofa, still dressed in the shirt and pants from yesterday. Someone—her—had covered him with a soft throw blanket and tucked a cushion under his head.

He groaned, stretching limbs that felt heavy and replenished. A glance at his watch made him blink in surprise. 9:00 a.m. He never slept this late. The memory of last night washed over him: the race home, finding her curled on this very couch, the decision to stay on the floor beside her. He remembered the profound calm of watching her sleep, the sync of their breathing… and then, nothing. A deep, dreamless void.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair. Something felt… odd. His lips tingled faintly, a subtle soreness as if he'd been kissing someone with fervent intensity. He frowned, touching his mouth. Strange. But it was a minor sensation, easily dismissed as the residue of an intense dream. Since the Taboo System's awakening, his sleep, even when short, was often a landscape of hyper-real, visceral fantasies. He shook his head, clearing the thought.

A slow smile spread across his face as he truly processed the rest he'd gotten. Seven hours. Seven solid hours of uninterrupted sleep. It felt like a miracle. The constant, low-grade hum of his powers, the relentless churn of his ambitions—it had all been silenced, if only for a night. All because he was near her.

He kicked off the blanket and followed the irresistible scent of food to the kitchen.

And there she was.

The moment he saw her, the entire world—his own chaotic thoughts, the low hum of the house, the predawn gloom outside—snapped into razor-sharp focus.

There was only her.

Her back was to him, a silhouette etched against the vast window as the first, true light of morning bled into the sky. She wore a simple, white waffle-weave robe, the kind of humble, everyday garment that should have looked utterly prosaic.

On her, it was a sacred vestment.

The belt was tied in a loose, casual knot at the small of her back, an simple bow that held the power to undo him. The morning sun, no longer soft but a burning, liquid gold, poured through the glass and caught the fine texture of the fabric, outlining her form in a fiery aura.

He was struck anew, not just by her beauty, but by its profound, terrifying authority. It was a quiet, effortless power that needed no grandstanding, no audience. It simply was.

His gaze traced the clean, elegant column of her neck, down the subtle ridge of her spine, a path his lips knew by heart.

The robe ended mid-thigh, a teasing boundary that revealed the long, toned lines of her calves, the gentle swell of her knees. He could see the faint blue shadows beneath her skin, the delicate tracery of veins that promised life and warmth.

But his eyes were caught, held hostage, by the way the soft fabric pulled taut across her hips. It wasn't just a suggestion; it was a declaration. The cloth hinted at the generous, powerful curve of her ass, the soft, weighty swell he had held in his hands countless times.

The memory was so visceral, so intense, that his own body responded with a deep, aching throb of want. It was a masterpiece draped in cotton, a landscape of quiet strength and staggering sensuality, and he was a pilgrim who had just stumbled upon his church.

A daring impulse took hold. Moving silently, he crept up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. It was a gesture from a distant yesterday, something a son might do to his mother without a second thought. And for a moment, it felt just like that.

She chuckled softly, not startled in the least. "I heard you shuffling in like a bear, sweetie." The familiar endearment was a balm.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that started deep in his chest and vibrated through his entire body.

He tightened his embrace, pulling her back against him until there was no space left, just the warmth of her body seeping into his. He rested his chin in the soft curve where her shoulder met her neck, and she instinctively tilted her head, a silent, unthinking offer of trust that made his heart clench.

Then he inhaled.

It wasn't just a breath; it was an act of communion. He buried his face in the warm, fragrant crook of her neck and drank her in.

He could smell the clean, faintly floral scent of the shampoo she'd used this morning, the warm, unique musk of her skin, and underneath it all, the rich, savory aroma of the eggs scented with butter and chives, filling the small kitchen with the promise of a new day.

It was the scent of her, of home, of everything he had ever wanted.

His body settled against hers, a perfect, weighted fit. He was acutely, intimately aware of his semi-hard cock pressing against the soft curve of her robe-clad ass. It wasn't a demand, but a statement.

A lazy, comfortable morning acknowledgment of the profound effect she had on him, even in sleep. The "boy," as he'd affectionately dubbed it, was still mostly asleep, content to just be there, nestled against her warmth.

Peter's hands splayed wide across her waist, his thumbs tracing idle circles on the thin cotton.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the morning light, and focused solely on the sensation of her—the subtle rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed, the faint vibration of the spatula against the pan, the steady, beating heart of the woman in his arms.

This was the only air he needed to breathe.

"It was the best sleep I've had in years," he murmured into her neck, his voice thick with contentment. "I think it was because you were right there."

She laughed, a warm, musical sound. "Is that your way of saying I'm a good sleeping charm?"

"You're more than that," he said, his voice softening with a truth he rarely voiced. "You're my safest place. My… oasis."

He felt her still for a fraction of a second before she continued stirring. "Is that so?"

He nodded, his cheek brushing against her hair. "Yes. After all, you're my mother. Who else could it be?"

The word mother hung in the air. He felt a sharp, almost imperceptible shiver run through her.

In Linda's mind, the word was a lightning rod, instantly conjuring a flood of illicit images: the bruising, desperate kisses she had planted on his lips every five minutes for over an hour after he'd fallen asleep, each one a secret she had devoured.

She recovered quickly, her voice barely wavering.

"Well," she said, her tone dipping into something suggestively gentle, "if I'm your oasis, then you should sleep here more often. So you can rest well all the time."

The invitation was layered, hovering between maternal care and something far more provocative.

He laughed, a low, warm sound. "That's a very tempting offer." He gave her waist one last squeeze before reluctantly pulling away. "I'm going to go the gym and then wash up. I feel… amazing."

She nodded, not turning around, focusing intently on the eggs. "Hurry up. Food will be ready soon."

As he walked away, Linda finally allowed herself to exhale, her knuckles white as she gripped the counter. The distance between yesterday and today had never felt so vast, or so dangerous.

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