"That'll explain it, yes," Wing says ruefully, nuzzling a soft kiss against Mayday's cheek. "It's the pollen from the flowers that's doing this."

He sighs contently and curls Mayday a little closer against his side, settling into the berth and dimming his optics as his hand slides in, curling around Mayday's spike and giving it a slow, gentle stroke. "How's this?" he asks, optics intent on Mayday's face, his voice a little staticky.