Sleep receded not with a jolt, but like a gentle tide pulling back from the shore. Consciousness returned to Linda wrapped in a profound, unfamiliar sense of peace. The crushing weight of the empty house was gone.

In its place was a warmth, a presence.

A rhythm.

Her eyes fluttered open to the soft grey light of dawn filtering through the windows. And there he was.

His face was almost no inches from hers, so close that his features were slightly blurred. He was asleep, his head resting on the cushion beside her, his body curled on the floor like a guardian lion at the foot of a throne. In the quiet stillness, his beauty was almost shocking. The strong line of his jaw was relaxed, his lips slightly parted.

Even in sleep, there was a power to him, a godly serenity that made the air around him seem to hum with a low, protective energy like the universe itself had approved who he was from beginning and what he was becoming and wrapped it's whole self around him.

But it was his breath that undid her completely.

She felt it before she heard it—a soft, warm caress against her own lips with every exhalation. Their breathing had synchronized, a single, shared life force moving between them. Inhale. Exhale. His breath washed over her; hers answered, mingling in the tiny space between their mouths.

A silent moan caught in her throat. This was the anchor she hadn't known she was missing.

For years, she had been the rock for everyone else, her own foundation slowly eroding from the constant pressure. Last night, the silence of the house had felt like a physical void, a preview of a future where her children had their own lives and she was left with nothing but echoes.

But this… this was the opposite of emptiness. This was a replenishment. His mere presence, asleep on the floor, filled the vast mansion to the brim. He was her son, but the feeling that surged through her was something else entirely—something primal, possessive, and fiercely maternal, yet layered with a terrifying, thrilling depth she dared not name.

Her obsession began not with a roar, but with this quiet, devastating clarity.

She didn't move a muscle, afraid to break the spell. Her eyes traced every detail of his face, memorizing him.

This was her baby boy, the man she had raised. But he was also this—this impossibly beautiful, powerful being who had chosen to leave a his estate full of adoring women like his sisters and other she saw, to sleep on a hard floor beside her. The significance of that choice was a balm that seeped into every lonely, cracked part of her soul.

Mine.

The thought was a lightning strike in the quiet of her mind. It was no longer just a mother's claim. It was a woman's declaration.

A fierce, obsessive need to keep this feeling, this safety, this worship, forever. He was the beacon that had lit up the shore when she was lost at sea. And now that she had found her way to him, she would never, ever let that light go.

She leaned forward, just a fraction, closing the minuscule gap until her lips were almost touching his forehead. She didn't kiss him. She just hovered there, feeling the heat of his skin, breathing him in. Her heart wasn't just full; it was feral with a love so vast it felt like it could swallow the world.

She would let him sleep. She would guard his sleep as he had guarded hers. And when he woke, she would make sure he never again felt the need to sleep on the floor. She would make a space for him right beside her. Always.

For Linda, the line had been crossed not in a passionate moment, but in the profound quiet of dawn. She was no longer just his mother. She was his most devoted keeper. And the obsession, now fully awakened, was a thing of terrifying, beautiful permanence.

But her obsession was a living thing in her chest, coiling tighter with every shared breath. The rational part of her mind—the nurse, the mother—was a distant whisper, drowned out by the roaring need to connect, to seal this bond in a way that went beyond words, beyond thought.

It was the sight of his lips, so soft and vulnerably parted in sleep, that broke her. They were right there. An invitation. A temptation that eclipsed a lifetime of restraint.

A tremor wracked her body. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desperate desire. Just one. Just one kiss. To know. It was a lie she told herself, a final flimsy excuse before the fall.

With a quiet, shuddering inhale, she closed the last whisper of distance.

Her lips met his.

It was not a chaste peck. It was a surrender. The moment her mouth touched his, a jolt of pure, undiluted electricity shot through her. His lips were warm, impossibly soft, and they yielded to hers with a pliancy that stole the air from her lungs.

And then, the impossible happened.

Even in the depths of his sleep, his body responded. His lips moved against hers, a slow, drowsy pressure. A soft, questioning sound, almost a sigh, vibrated from his throat into her mouth. It was the sound of innate recognition, of a soul answering its mate.

Linda froze, her eyes wide with sheer panic.

'He's kissing me back.'

But the panic was instantly incinerated by a surge of primal triumph. His lips were on hers. His lips. They were moving, seeking. She could feel the hint of his tongue, a warm presence just behind the seam of his lips, waiting.

That was all the invitation she needed. The last vestige of her resistance evaporated.

With a low, broken moan, she devoured him.

Her mouth slanted over his, deepening the kiss with a frantic, obsessive hunger. Her tongue swept into his mouth, not asking, but claiming.

She tasted sleep and something else, something uniquely, essentially Peter—a clean, minty, deeply masculine flavor that sent a shockwave of lust straight to her core. Her hands came up, one cupping his jaw to hold him still, the other tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if she could somehow merge him into her very being.

He moaned softly into the kiss, a sound of pure, unconscious pleasure. His body shifted on the floor, leaning into her touch. His own tongue met hers, not with aggression, but with a sleepy, instinctual dance.

His eyelids fluttered weakly, and for a terrifying second, she thought he would wake.

But they simply closed again, a faint frown of confusion smoothing into contentment. A dream, his sleeping mind must have rationalized. Just another one of those intense, hyper-real dreams he had about his mother, of what they could do together.

The fact that he was still asleep, that he was responding to her from a place of pure, unfiltered instinct, drove her to madness. This was the truth, stripped of all pretense. This was the raw connection she craved.

She kissed him more, deeper, her moans muffled against his mouth. She drank from him like she was dying of thirst, each taste, each soft sound he made, fueling her obsession. She was lost in him, drowning in the sensation, her entire world narrowed to the feeling of his lips and tongue moving with hers.

She was kissing her son. And in the silent, dawn-lit room, it felt like the most natural, most necessary thing she had ever done. The point of no return had not just been crossed; it had been obliterated.

A/N: Argue as you want but I know when it comes to things like this? I am the best there is.

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