her fight and fury's fiery, oh but she loves like sleep to the freezing
Her grin darkens at the promise in his voice, at the way his hand shifts in her WINTER FIRE hair as though he might pull her closer or raise her sails and see what wind she’ll take. She feels the moment he stills, too, feels the old care in it, but her thoughts don’t catch on the pause. She has enough certainty for them both, settled easy in the space between his knees and wrapped around him, knowing just where she belonged even if it still occasionally took him by surprise.
"Oh, I remember," she says, laughing softly beneath her breath at the thought of him younger and sharper-edged, throwing them into danger with that same bright certainty and somehow pulling them clear by the skin of their teeth. There’s affection in it, not nostalgia softened into something fragile, but the warm familiarity of a storm she’s weathered often enough to know its shape.
As he leans close, she can smell snow still clinging to him beneath the mulled wine and tobacco. For a moment her smile gentles, blue eyes holding his with something open and unguarded. "I never have been," she says, meaning disappointed, the words quieter than the rest but no less certain. Then mischief returns, slow and brightening, her fingers slipping idly through his hair as though she’s considering the idea properly. "And maybe the next time it stills, it could at least be somewhere I can swim?" The request is light in its delivery, but there’s a deeper pull beneath it, a restlessness that has nothing to do with contracts or ledgers or which region might prove most interesting to anchor in. Water is not merely a place for her to visit; it is the first language of her body, the one place where flesh and hull and soul stop feeling like separate things. Too long away from it given the cold, save for brief and awkward crossings toward the desert where even the skyport leaves her stranded far from the tide given its placement miles from the water, and she has begun to feel hemmed in beneath her own skin.
"Oh, I remember," she says, laughing softly beneath her breath at the thought of him younger and sharper-edged, throwing them into danger with that same bright certainty and somehow pulling them clear by the skin of their teeth. There’s affection in it, not nostalgia softened into something fragile, but the warm familiarity of a storm she’s weathered often enough to know its shape.
As he leans close, she can smell snow still clinging to him beneath the mulled wine and tobacco. For a moment her smile gentles, blue eyes holding his with something open and unguarded. "I never have been," she says, meaning disappointed, the words quieter than the rest but no less certain. Then mischief returns, slow and brightening, her fingers slipping idly through his hair as though she’s considering the idea properly. "And maybe the next time it stills, it could at least be somewhere I can swim?" The request is light in its delivery, but there’s a deeper pull beneath it, a restlessness that has nothing to do with contracts or ledgers or which region might prove most interesting to anchor in. Water is not merely a place for her to visit; it is the first language of her body, the one place where flesh and hull and soul stop feeling like separate things. Too long away from it given the cold, save for brief and awkward crossings toward the desert where even the skyport leaves her stranded far from the tide given its placement miles from the water, and she has begun to feel hemmed in beneath her own skin.
sweet and right and merciful, all but washed in the tide of her breathing
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
