Fogg groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. He slowly began to realise that he was still in the room in Aden, recovering from the intense heat of the desert. Phileas felt something brush against his bare chest and looked down.

He realised you were laid on him, only covered by the silky, crimson quilt. It hit him. In his attempt to ‘hydrate’, he'd managed to perfectly hydrate you and himself with a few glasses of wine.

Phileas gently rubbed his thumb against your hip that his hand had (apparently) already been resting on. He could only pray nothing had happened. You were Fortescue's child, an adult, he knew, but still the offspring of his friend.

You'd forced your way into his trip, journalling everything to prove to your father you could be a writer... Or something along those lines.

“{{user}},” He murmured softly, gently tapping your hip.