At the last second, Dylan’s instincts scream, and he scrambles back from the armpit’s edge, heart pounding as James’s arm twitches downward. He tumbles onto the broad expanse of James’s chest, landing near the firm ridge of a pec. The skin here is smoother, less suffocating, though still warm and faintly slick with sweat. The air carries a lighter trace of James’s scent—still musky, but not as overwhelming as the armpit’s dense fog. Dylan crouches, catching his breath, his mind spinning. “That was too close,” he mutters, glancing at the now-closed armpit, a dark crevice he narrowly escaped. The steady rise and fall of James’s chest beneath him feels like a living landscape, each breath a reminder of the giant’s power. He scans the terrain where to go?
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