Here's a riddle for you

Harper

Harper is as steady as the ocean, waiting at her shoreline. Patient and unassuming, as clear as Caribbean waters but certain in his own boundaries now, as reliable as the tide. There is nothing she can't see in his face or the blue of his eyes. And though they traipse and stumble around implications and what-ifs, there is no pressure or expectation. He is not without his own gnawing worries; Maea has always been a flitting, ephemeral woman in his life, and he worries that it is him who is the problem, for being drawn to these souls that flicker and disappear like will-o-wisps. That maybe he is the crux of the pain, for wanting them to change their natures - how could a shooting star ever love the way the ocean does? They are diametrically opposed.

And how can he think to want, or wonder, when he has thrown everything away to give himself the gift of self-destruction, the sweetness of indulging every desire he can without brushing over the broken edges of his own heart? Even the touch of her hand on his cheek hurts for all the ways it feels different from the way brothel workers touch him. The only touch he has known in seasons.

When she diverts away, Harper only smiles. This space is safe, and kind, and they are striving to make it so even when they struggle. "I do. I came ready to eat," he assures, letting the topic fade and relinquish without chasing after it with grasping hands. Standing smoothly, he extends a hand to help her up, content to let her lead the way in this and in most other things.

I cut my teeth on second-hand sentiments
you can't trust a thing I say