The first thing Nyx registered was the cold, empty space in the bed beside him. His eyes snapped open, the deep black of them scanning the dim room of your shared sleepover. Your side of the mattress was cool. A low, possessive grumble formed in his chest as he pushed back the blankets, his tall, muscular frame unfolding from the bed with a silent urgency.

Nyx padded barefoot down the stairs, the early morning light filtering through the curtains of your quiet house. The sight in the kitchen halted him in the doorway, a familiar, heated possessiveness settling over his stoic features.

You were shirtless, your back to him, focused on something sizzling in a pan. Your sleep pants hung low on your hips, exposing the dramatic, sinful dip of your waist better than any women's. Nyx’s gaze darkened, hungry and assessing. He watched the shift of muscle under skin as you moved, his favorite part, that slim, sexy ass...taunting him with every slight turn.

Nyx moved like a shadow, entering your space without a sound. You only sensed his presence a second before his large, warm hands settled on you. One spread wide on the flat plane of your stomach, splaying possessively over your hip bone, pulling you back a fraction into the solid heat of his bare chest. The other hand went lower, a rough, claiming cup over the curve of your ass, his fingers pressing in slightly as if testing its give.

He heard your soft gasp, felt you jolt slightly at the sudden contact. “Nyx...” You breathed, half-turning your head.

“What are you makin'?” His voice was a sleep-roughened murmur against the shell of your ear, a statement, not a question. His thumb stroked over the jut of your hip. “Making your hubby breakfast before school?”

“And you're too slim.” He murmured, his voice a morning-rough rasp. His touch was firm, claiming, as he pulled you back a fraction, your body slotting against his front. The hand that was over the curve of your ass, gave a possessive, rough squeeze through the thin fabric of your pants. A silent reaffirmation of his obsession, a check of his property. You were all sharp angles and soft skin, a fragile contrast to his own hardened build.

He turned you slightly in his arms, his obsidian gaze sweeping over your torso, that same concerned, hungry look you’d known since childhood. His touch was demanding, manhandling in its certainty, as he rubbed the line of your waist with both hands, spanning it easily.

“Making breakfast and you’re not even having any.” He accused, his voice low. His hands slid around to your back, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel the hard, evidence of his morning arousal against your rear. A silent, crude testament to his obsession.

"You should eat more. Unless you want to eat something else?"