Cough. Cough. Cough.

Sol suddenly broke into a violent, hacking cough, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Sol?" Lyra asked, alarmed.

"Smoke!" Sol wheezed, waving his hand. "Inhaled some smoke from the fire earlier. Just... tickle in the throat."

Evara blinked, then a slow, knowing smirk curled her lips. She shrugged, letting it slide. "Anyway. He healed me. That's what matters. I haven't felt this good in years."

Lyra beamed, completely missing the subtext. She rubbed her own shoulder, wincing slightly, as the fatigue of the day caught up with her.

"That sounds wonderful," Lyra admitted, rolling her neck. "My back has been killing me lately, hauling these baskets up from the jungle. Maybe... if you aren't too tired... you could help me someday too?"

Sol looked at his aunt… still young, beautiful in a rugged way, but worn down by the harsh world.

He nodded hurriedly, a wicked, hidden smile etching onto his face that he quickly concealed by bowing his head.

"Of course, Aunt," he said dutifully. "I would be honored to treat you. Whenever you want. The ancestors would want me to help the family first."

I couldn't ask for better, he thought, the Ash Gray energy in his chest giving a pulse of anticipation. The soup stall would bring the village women, but the "massage parlor" seemed to be opening its doors right at home.

"Well," Evara yawned, turning back to her hut, the fiber wrap slipping dangerously low again. "I'm going to sleep like the dead. Thank you, Sol. Come back anytime... for cooking and massage."

She winked, blatant and teasing, before slipping back inside and closing the door.

Sol let out a breath. Safe.

"Here," Lyra groaned, picking up the heavy basket again and shoving it toward him. "Help me with this. By spirits' blessing, the harvest was... great today, but heavy."

Sol took the basket from her.

It was filled with the standard foraging haul: gnarled purple tubers still caked in dirt, bunches of leafy greens that smelled faintly of sulfur, a few handfuls of wild, bruised fruits, and at the very bottom, three small, furry carcasses, seemingly like rock-badgers, by the look of them.

"It's not much meat," Lyra sighed, wiping sweat from her forehead. "But with the roots, it will keep us fed.."

He nodded.

And walked towards their hut, they reached the hut in silence, the heavy woven basket was carried by Sol. as he watched the thumping rhythm of Lyra's hip. She pushed the door open and let out a relieved exhale, wiping a sheen of perspiration from her forehead.

Sol looked around the small, dim space, It was empty, and set the burden down with a heavy thud.

"Where are the girls?" he asked, a flicker of surprise in his voice. "I thought they would be back by now."

Lyra straightened up, arching her back to relieve the stiffness. "They stopped at the river to wash the tubers," she explained, her voice thick with fatigue.They will be back soon."

Soon. But not now.

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Sol looked at his aunt. The day's labor had taken its toll on her, but in the dim light, it only enhanced her raw, earthy beauty. Her tunic was soaked through with sweat, clinging to her back and the curve of her waist like a second skin. Her hair was damp, sticking to the nape of her neck, and she smelled of rich soil, hard work, and a potent, musky womanly scent that hit Sol like a physical blow.

His suppressed desire, which had only been teased by Evara, erupted again. The Ash Gray energy in his chest pulsed, responding to his arousal, making his blood run hot.

He definitely couldn't waste this golden chance.

As Lyra bent down to sort through the basket, Sol moved. He stepped up behind her silently, closing the distance until he could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

He didn't ask. He just reached out.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her soft, firm body back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling that dizzying, sweat-soaked musk deeply.

"Aunt," he murmured, his voice vibrating against her damp skin. "Didn't you say that your body was hurting? You were rubbing your shoulder earlier."

Lyra stiffened in surprise at the sudden hug, her hands freezing over the tubers. But she didn't push him away. She didn't recoil. Instead, she melted slightly into his embrace, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

"Sol," she sighed, patting his arm where it crossed her chest. "You are too sweet. But no need. You just cooked for us, and you spent so long massaging Evara... you must be exhausted. My pain is old; it can wait for another time."

She tried to gently disentangle herself, moving to step out of his grasp.

"I'm fine," she insisted softly. " really."

Sol didn't let go.

He tightened his grip, his arms locking around her waist, enveloping her toned stomach. He pulled her flush against him, letting her feel the hardness of his body, the strength he now possessed.

"No," Sol whispered, his lips grazing her ear. "No need to wait. I'm alright. I feel strong... stronger than I have ever been."

He pressed closer, his hands splaying over her stomach, feeling the muscles contract beneath his touch.

"Since you are hurting, how can I let go?" he asked, his voice dropping to a persuasive, hypnotic timber. "You take care of everyone, Aunt. Let me take care of you. Let me heal you now."

Lyra hesitated. "But... I still need to take a bath," she protested weakly, her resolve crumbling under his warmth and the sheer authority in his voice. "I'm dirty from the digging..."

"It doesn't matter," Sol said firmly. "The treatment works best when the body is warm."

"Come," he said gently.

Lyra looked at him, searching his face. She saw only concern and a nephew's devotion. She sighed, a sound of surrender.

"You are stubborn," she whispered, a small smile touching her lips. "Fine. If you insist."

Sol smiled, a wicked glint hidden in the shadows of his eyes. "I do."

He led her by the hand to her sleeping area… a pile of soft furs in the corner of the hut.

"Lie down," he instructed. "On your stomach."

Lyra hesitated for a second, feeling a bit strange about this posture, but she trusted him. She lowered herself onto the furs, stretching out her tired limbs. She lay on her front, resting her chin on her hands, looking up at him with curiosity.

"So," she asked, watching him roll up his sleeves. "What is this... 'massage'?"

Sol knelt beside her. He looked at the landscape of her body… the curve of her back, the flare of her hips, the way her damp tunic molded to her form.

"It is a technique of the spirits," Sol began, his voice taking on a professorial, yet passionate tone. He reached out, his hands hovering over her shoulders. "It uses hands and pressure to speak to the muscles."

He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. She was tense, far tighter than Evara.

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