His scent changes as soon as Burr is close, as soon as his eyes are closed. The fight in him, the distress, the muscles and organs held so tense, all start to fade to quiet and comfort. It is something biological and instinctive, and not what he expects to feel: he does not reach out, but instead goes liquid at Burr's touch, feels almost as though he has gone beyond liquid to something translucent and caressing like mist. His scent says safety. It says calm. It isn't a conscious manipulation, but rather a response.

"He needs rest," Ned points out.

A slight nod, a stirring, as he takes in Ned's words. He makes a concession to his desires, but only a little, just canting his head to the side, towards Burr. And he purrs, quietly, ever-so-soft, enough that Burr can feel the vibration in his throat.