If am lost, I am lost on purpose.
She isn’t sure how something has grown so quickly.
How just meeting him planted a seed in her that has burst forth as this garden, but she has never been one to question life or try to discern the details of it. Instead, she gladly leans into the moment, gladly lets the feeling of warmth wash over her as his milky glow lights the area around them. She sighs, curling into him, feeling his heat and knowing that it is a sign that he is alive, that they are live, that this is real.
She would stay here forever, she thinks, and she smiles when he claims her as his own.
She had never thought that she was something to be claimed, but she finds she does not mind it.
Does not mind being his home—being his.
So she just smiles, reaching out to explore the curve of his jaw and the sweep of his neck. Studying the horn that grows crooked from his head and the way the dark of him bleeds into the silvery light. She absorbs the wings that usually grace her side and she turns to tuck under his own, feeling the slick slide of his coat against her as she ducks her head. “Now that we have more time,” she starts, golden eyes looking up from beneath crimson lashes, “you can tell me more about where you came from.”
She wanted to hear everything—everything that he had experienced and done.
Everything that made him, him.
