gold are your fingertips

Theea

cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head

The curve of his smile sends a thrill through me. It isn’t only the little victory of coaxing it out of him (though it definitely is); it’s the steady warmth of a fire flickering to life. And when I think of his laugh when we sparred, that felt like a blaze—brief and bright and impossible to look away from.

He flicks those quiet ember-dark eyes down to his lantern, the glow finding them before anything else. Lanternlight along the path catches faint on his mouth, a pale edge of gold, before he looks up again. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted it to be private. I don’t know if anyone has ever hung it with him—if Rane ever had quiet, tender moments with the orphan he raised.

It’s strange to think of strong, steadfast Damien as an orphan, and the thought hits hard, sudden and clean. Loneliness has a shape, and I feel the outline of it when I remember what he's had to shoulder.

He speaks softly—rough in that way he gets—and accepts my offer. If the drink wasn’t already warming me, his trust does. It’s something deeply personal, especially for someone as guarded as Damien, and it lands in me like heat that lingers.

As we walk, the party narrows around us into something hushed and intimate, even with a gaggle of children racing past in painted masks. I smile after them. I wonder if Damien ever got to play like that. I rarely did, but sometimes. Melita’s words drift back to me, and I think maybe there are childish games in his future whether he plans for them or not.

At his nod to my drink, my brows rise. I lift it gently toward him and say, "Try it," with a lopsided smile. "Stronger than it tastes, I think, but it’s warm."

Then he holds out the lantern as I hold out the drink, and I realize he means for me to hang it. I glance from it to him, light glimmering in my eyes with something I can’t quite name. Gratitude for his trust, maybe—something I don’t think he gives easily.

I take the lantern from him; our fingers graze and linger a heartbeat before he lets me have it. The weight is both feather-light and immensely heavy at once. I smile softly at the glass—pine trees, snowflakes—and hope his parents are watching from Mort’s halls, hearing every time their son honors them without a word. I rise onto the balls of my feet to reach the line. It takes only a moment to hook it and settle back onto my heels, but my hand lingers at the lantern’s base, a quiet touch and a smaller smile.

I look back to Damien, taking my drink back if he had taken it from me, and tip my head toward one of the drink tables at the edge of the festivities. I lead. There, I sweep a hand toward the metal barrel set over a low flame and the empty mugs. Pretending I’m not as much a lightweight as my mom, I finish off the drink and pour another, leaning back against the table with both hands cupped around the warmth.

I choose not to bring up my reunited family—another night for that. I take a generous drink, feel heat bloom in my chest and across my cheeks. "Deimos gave me a shortsword when I went to the Guildhall," I start instead. "Told him I’d definitely kick your ass with it." My smile curls into a smirk, eyes tipping up to him in playful challenge. "Have you picked a weapon from the armory yet?"

a million dreams are keeping me awake

Damien

i'm trying to run from our pride

He let her take the lantern. The moment their fingers parted, the weight of it shifted—not just the glass and wood, but everything tied into it, the years of setting these things alight with no one beside him, the ritual of grief turned habit. He’d never let anyone touch that. Not Rane. Not friends. Not even in thought.

But Theea wasn’t anyone. She was the girl who had trailed after him once, bright and eager when he was still young enough to think he could outpace her. Years had gone by, but somehow she’d slipped back into his path, older now, tempered by gods and yearning for more from life. She was the only one who kept reaching for him, again and again, like she didn’t care how rough he’d been worn by the years. Maybe she didn’t even notice the calloused parts. Or maybe she did and held on anyway.

So he let her. Because it mattered that it was her. If she weren’t here, he’d have hung it himself. But she was, and some quiet, stubborn part of him wanted her hands apart of it—wanted her to set the light for his parents, so they could see him standing here with someone who mattered.

When she rose on her toes to hook it, his eyes followed the line of her small frame, restless and certain all at once, hair slipping loose into the lantern-glow. And for a heartbeat, he let himself think that if his parents were watching from Mort’s halls, they’d see her too.

He took the cider when she offered it, their hands brushing again. Always finding excuses, this girl. She didn’t even realize it. Or maybe she did. The drink was warmer than he expected, sharper too, heat blooming down his throat and settling in his chest. He handed it back with the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Not bad..”

When she led him to the table, he followed, Aria nearly tripping him as she tried to walk between his boots. The crowd thinned into something quieter in the periphery. He watched Theea lean back against the wood, both hands around the mug like it was the only thing keeping her tethered, cheeks flushed with cider and lanternlight. Her eyes caught his, bright as winter water, and he thought again about how easily she softened the air between them.

Then she was talking about the Guildhall, about Deimos arming her with steel, her mouth curling in that smirk that always asked for trouble. “Definitely kick your ass,” she said, teasing, baiting, alive. He huffed a low laugh, shaking his head.

“Haven’t been to the armory yet,” he admitted, voice low, rough around the edges but steady. “Been building. Fixing roofs, hauling lumber, patching walls. I’ve spent more time with a hammer than a blade lately.” His hand flexed unconsciously at his side, palm remembering the weight of tools.

Damien bent to scoop up Aria, his hand braced beneath her ribs as he lifted her without effort and set her on the empty barrel at his side. “Stay,” he murmured, though it came out more like habit than command. She blinked at him, bright-eyed, tail flicking once before she began to paw at the rim of the barrel as if testing its edge, clearly already scheming about how to make herself the center of attention again.

He left her to it, pouring a measure of cider into a cup for himself. The scent bit sharp in the nose; this wasn’t the weak stuff. He drank anyway, steady as if it were nothing more than water. The warmth spread fast, sinking into him, taking the edge off the night without dulling it.

“Tomorrow I’ll go and pick something,” he said at last, turning the thought over even as it left his mouth. He leaned a shoulder against the edge of the table beside her, close but not pressing. His hand brushed hers for the barest instant where they both rested against the wood. Not much—just the softest contact, a quiet answer to every time she’d reached for him tonight. His eyes slid to hers, the faintest trace of challenge there, tempered with something warmer. “Then you can try that blade on me. Unless you’re too chicken.” He lifted his cup again, the rim hiding the smirk tugging at his mouth.

'til you set fire to my atmosphere

Theea

cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head

That low laugh of his rolls through me as warm as the cider, and I have to take another sip to chase it with a heat that’s simpler to understand.

I scratch between Aria’s ears as Damien plucks her off the ground and plops her on the table beside him. I smile fondly at her. I hope he’s letting her curl up with him at night—for her sake if not for his. He’s a great cuddler.

Not that he’d appreciate that said out loud. I hide the thought behind my mug with a secretive smile. I might be drinking a bit fast for someone trying to cover up smiles and flushed cheeks. Or maybe the drink is causing the flushed cheeks. Who can know, really?

He leans against the table, and like always, I’m all too aware of where and when he touches me—even the feather-light brush of his hand to mine on the wood. The contact is gone too soon. It feels like some part of me is chasing the steadiness I found with him in the cave, the one under the fear and the pain.

And then—

Too chicken?

I laugh outright, eyes on his, the sound warm with mirth. "I’ll have you know chickens can be quite brave. And fierce." I take another drink, letting the warmth tingle from my throat until it blooms in my stomach—and leaves my fingertips a little numb.

"A chicken attacked me once. She and her cock of a husband," I say, entirely too serious. "My shins were so scratched up you’d hardly know I had any skin that wasn’t pink and red. And I didn’t even do anything!" (Lies. I had almost stepped on their nest. But hush.)

I take yet another sip and keep going. "My specialty is knives, but I’ll bet you can’t beat me. Besides, I already won once. Fair and square," I add quickly, so he doesn’t get the chance to say he went easy on me. I tip my half-empty mug at him. "What weapon are you thinking?"

a million dreams are keeping me awake

Damien

i'm trying to run from our pride

Damien felt the shift before he fully looked—light thinning out across the field, chatter falling in waves until the hush pressed against his ears. Lanterns dimmed one by one, the pools of glow shrinking until only a single fire still burned proud against the dark. Edrei Launceleyn’s dragon grin, sparks curling upward like it had teeth.

He glanced that way, steady but brief. This was how it went. Someone was chosen, most weren’t. He hadn’t expected otherwise, and there was no sting in it. Whoever it was—good for them. Let them have that moment. He turned back to what was in front of him.

Which, at the moment, was Theea telling him with the straightest face that she’d once been ambushed by a chicken.

He stared at her a long beat, cup paused at his mouth, before the laugh broke out of him. Low, rough, entirely uncontained. He shook his head slowly. “Of course you got into a fight with a chicken,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth still dragged up. “Figures.”

Aria, curious at the sound, chirped once from her barrel-perch and pawed the air like she meant to box a phantom hen herself.

Damien’s gaze slid back to Theea, still catching the mirth flickering in her eyes. He took another drink, warmth settling in, though it had less to do with cider than with her.

“You didn’t win,” he said finally, answering the jab about their spar with a steady calm. Not defensive, not stung—just sure. “We traded. You landed blows. So did I. Call it even.” A pause, and then the faintest tilt of his head, like he was offering her something without making it sound like one. “Next round, with steel in hand, we’ll see.”

She’d asked him what he was thinking of. He let his eyes tip toward the fields, where the last sparks of the chosen lantern drifted up like embers into the night, then back to her.

“Axe,” he said simply. “Not for trees.” His hand mimed the swing without thought, a sharp arc through the air, then a flick of the wrist like throwing. “Something balanced. Heavy enough to break, light enough to carry. Maybe even throw.” His mouth pulled faintly, like the idea sat well with him. “Feels right.”

He leaned back against the table again, close enough that the warmth of her shoulder brushed the edge of his awareness. His eyes stayed on hers a moment longer, the barest tug of a smirk threatening again. “Still think you’ll win?”

'til you set fire to my atmosphere

Theea

cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head

The festival changes—hush rolling over the field like a cloud crossing the sun—and then I see Edrei. She’d been at Remi and Ronin’s party; I smile, because she’s clearly loved and known by many. I’ve only heard her name here and there in her mom’s stories. The Launceleyns were a powerful presence in her world, but Edrei always broke the mould.

And then Damien laughs. He laughs, and my grin turns radiant in answer; I can’t help laughing with him, my straight face breaking like a giggling creek splashing over stone, bright and quick.

“Figures?” I laugh as it fades. “What’s that supposed to mean? It was a mean chicken!”

His eyes catch mine again, and the lantern-glow skims his mouth, catching on the curve of it. I bite my lip to temper my smile and take a generous drink of warm cider. My gaze flicks to his lips when they lift like that; something in my gut does a backflip, and I take another sip before the cup even leaves my mouth to settle it.

I lower my drink, and it’s easy to frown when he says I didn’t win. He conceded. That’s a win, dammit. Sure, he got me on my back—outright pinned me—but that doesn’t count; I got out of it.

“Next round, you’ll see. I’m better trained than you think.” My chin tips up, mock-haughty, sunlight-bright with challenge.

Then… an axe. I smile and nod—should’ve expected as much. He leans back against the table, and his shoulder brushes mine. I don’t shy away; I maybe drift a little closer, not enough to spook him. I like contact with him. It pulls me back to the cave after all the fear—the warmth there, a kind of tender heat I’ve never had before, like holding my hands out to a steady fire.

He meets my eyes with an almost-smirk, and my smirk goes crooked right back. “Definitely. I’ve never been up against an axe before, but… nothing to it, right?”

I bump his shoulder just a little, then take another drink. When I realize I can’t feel the burn anymore, I figure I should slow down. The lanterns blur into a soft haze; the whole festival feels lit from within, like dusk holding its breath.

“Damien,” I say softly, smiling a little. “What’s your favorite color? Or… favorite time of day. Or night? Least favorite food?”

I finally look at him fully, letting the warmth in my eyes hold—bright, patient, sun-sure. I wonder if anyone has asked him those things before. It feels like he lives, talks, even breathes as if a gust might blow the curtain back and show too much. I’m drawing it aside, gently. I’ve seen what’s on the other side, and I want more of it.

a million dreams are keeping me awake

Damien

i'm trying to run from our pride

Damien’s smirk tilted a little higher at her haughty chin, at the promise in her voice. He didn’t doubt she was trained, quick with a blade, clever besides. That was half the fun of it—sparring with her was never a matter of winning or losing, not really. Where he was stronger, she was faster. Where she thought ahead, he trusted instinct. And that edge where they met, steel against steel, was sharper than anything he’d felt in a long while.

Her shoulder brushed his, and he let it stay. Gods, she laughed and the whole damn field lit up brighter than the lanterns. He drank again, heat climbing through him. The warmth of her sank deep in his chest, a little dangerous, like something bubbling that didn’t belong to him. Almost drunk. Almost. Maybe wanting to be.

She asked him about colors. About food. About time. Questions simple as bread, but no one ever really asked him, not like that. The words should have slid off him like water on stone—he knew how to shrug those things away, build his wall with ease. Only… he reached for it and found nothing. No stones to stack, no curtain to pull back into place. Just her, looking at him like she actually wanted to know.

He glanced out over the field again, at strangers laughing too loud, voices hitching on grief when they thought no one heard. The edges of sorrow and drink pressed close, and he didn’t want to share himself in the middle of it. Not with them all around.

He reached and crouched to set Aria gently on the ground, and she tottered a few steps before hopping forward, claws ticking softly against the packed dirt.

“Come, walk with me,” he said instead, quiet but sure. He grabbed his empty cup from the table and reached for hers too, tilting it in her direction with a brow lifted like it was invitation. And, a half-empty bottle for good measure.

He carried their cups until he spotted a bench tucked beneath a rowan tree, its branches feathered with clusters of red berries that caught what little light filtered through the lanterns. The seat was half in shadow, half touched by festival glow — quiet enough for talking without pulling them from the night entirely. He sank down onto one end, steady as ever, and passed Theea her drink before taking a slow sip of his own.

“Favorite color’s green,” he said at last, voice low, not rushed. He let it hang there. “Deep, ever green. Like a pine forest. Dark red is a close second, though.” He glanced sidelong at her, a faint tug at his mouth. “Time of day—sunrise. You can feel the world start over. All the noise still quiet.” He let the image sit, surprised at how easy it was to give.

Another sip, slower. The alcohol spread warm into his limbs, loosening him in ways he rarely let himself be.

“Least favorite food?” He huffed a breath, a low laugh through his nose. “Raw onions. Can’t stand ‘em. Cook ‘em down, fine. But raw…” He made a face, shaking his head like the taste lived on his tongue even now.

His eyes found hers again, steadier now. Lanternlight flickered soft at their backs, but it was the glow in her gaze he settled on. He tilted his head slightly, inviting, curious. “And you?”

'til you set fire to my atmosphere

Theea

cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head

He doesn’t answer, not at first—but it doesn’t feel like he’s shutting me out. He looks around the festival like he’s guarding top-secret information, sensitive to ears not meant to hear it. And maybe to him, it is.

He sets Aria on the ground and lets her toddle off on big paws and long claws. I smile fondly at her—resilient and sweet—lanternlight softening her fur until she slips beneath the row of trees and disappears into their shade.

Then he takes my cup. I tilt my head with a quirked brow; he tips it toward me… and a bottle. My confusion turns to a smile, bright and easy, and I follow him, meandering to a red-berried rowan where the light freckles the bench like sun through leaves. He sits on one end; I resist the urge to plop against him. Instead I sit close—off-center—my knee brushing his leg as I fold cross-legged, facing him.

I take my drink back, tipping it to him like a quiet thank-you, and have a long sip. But it's his words I'm drinking in, spreading through me with more tingling warmth than any alcohol could.

Green. Dark, forest green. Or rich, dark red.

Sunrise, at the breaking of a new day.

And raw onions.

I grin at the face he makes—such a free expression from such a stoic man—and drink again before resting the mug between my legs, elbows on my knees. His eyes are on mine—gods, why is eye contact with him so easy? Not just easy; I seek it out, a moth to a flame.

He returns the questions, and I purse my lips.

“Yellow. Or gold. Like sunflowers. Or the sun half-hidden behind a horizon. Sunbeams through a storm. Or… I love dusky, dusty blue. The kind the sky turns just after the sun has set, before the dark has settled.” Rambling. Again. My cheeks are definitely flushed now—mercifully, the booze can take the blame with how loose my limbs feel. “And I hate olives. All kinds. Doesn’t matter—they’re yuck.” My nose crinkles.

And time… my voice goes earnest before I can rein it in. “My favorite time is just before dawn. The real twilight of the world, when even the night owls have gone to bed and the early birds haven’t risen. It’s like time holds its breath—stars clinging to the sky, the sun still drowsy, everything that soft shade of blue and yellow.”

I bite my lip and look down at my drink like I’ve said too much. I always do when I get going. Charming, people call it—until I talk too fast or share too much. My thumb traces the rim; a rueful little smile tugs without me looking up.

“Sorry. Sometimes I can’t shut up.” I wince and shrug one shoulder, finally glancing back to him. “You already knew that, though.”

a million dreams are keeping me awake

Damien

i'm trying to run from our pride

He let her words settle like stones dropped in a pool, rippling slow but steady. “Sunflowers, huh…” he muttered, almost to himself, letting the sound roll lazily over his tongue. These little facts, he’d tuck them away in the corners of his mind, neat and secret. Gold. Dusky blue. He lifted a brow, a faint twitch of amusement catching him—like he could see her thoughts skimming over each color, catching the sparks in between. You paint pictures with your favorites, he thought, silent. Not out loud, not yet. Not yet, but the thought made his chest tighten just a fraction.

Then she mentioned olives, and he chuckled, low in the throat, the sound roughened by the warmth of cider. Not mocking. Easy. “Olives? Really…” He tilted his head, “More for me, then.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips, and he let it linger there, though the laugh tasted like more than just amusement—it had that slight, sticky sweetness the drink left behind.

He let the silence stretch a heartbeat longer, feeling the slow pulse of the world before dawn. He knew it—this hour, the air still thick with sleep, the sky holding its breath. Felt like being the only one awake in a room full of sleeping giants. Felt like he could slip words, thoughts, secrets into the air and no one would ever reach for them. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “it’s like the world’s waiting for you to take it. Quiet, just for you.”

When she lowered her gaze, biting her lip, he leaned forward, just a fraction, and let the moment hang between them. “Stop apologizing for being you,” he said, low, almost gentle, though the smirk hadn’t left him. “I don’t mind the talking. When you speak, I… pay attention.  That’s the difference. And the way you describe things.. I like listening to it, Theea.” No fluff. No coaxing. Just the weight of it, resting on the words like a stone on soft earth. Most people might just hear words, nod, and move on. He, on the other hand, noticed the little things, the texture, the weight behind the things she said, the way her words filled space without him needing to work at it.

Aria’s paw tapped against the bench as if to remind them she existed. He glanced down, catching the lantern glow in her round eyes. The cub crouched, then sprang from shadow to grass, tail high, swaying like she owned every inch of the world. He couldn’t help the corner of his mouth tugging; her joy spread like the embers of a fire.

He caught movement at the edge of his vision; fireflies blinking their first hesitant lights above the grass. His free hand settled on the empty glass at his side, picking it up but decidedly not refilling it. He rose from the bench and tipped his head back slightly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Come on,” he looked at Theea where she still sat, his gaze softer than his roughened voice. 

He lifted his other hand out, steady but casual, in an unspoken invitation. His eyes held the faintest mischief, the kind that made you wonder if he saw more than he let on—and maybe he did. Maybe he saw her, all of her, and it made something flicker inside him, sharp and strange, and he had no word for it.

He led her onto the grass [if she'd let him], each step soft against the damp earth, the world opening just enough around them to feel separate from the bustle of the festival. The first fireflies blinked, tentative sparks, dotting the dark like scattered embers. Damien let his gaze drift over them, slow and steady, the warm scent of dew and grass rising, sticky in the air. Light flickered against the edges of Theea’s hair, brushed against her shoulders, and for a moment he noticed how small and luminous it made everything look.

'til you set fire to my atmosphere

Theea

cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head

I sense Damien lean down closer, and I dare a look up, expecting to hear, It’s okay. Because it’s something to apologize for and something that needs to be forgiven.

Instead it’s a quiet insistence not to be sorry at all.

I blink, taking it in as he says it, his soft smirk like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he means it as a fact, the way he does when he compliments my capabilities. He’s not trying to make me feel better, not telling me what I want to hear. He means it as surely as saying the sky is blue—and somehow that means more.

I don’t know why heat rushes to my cheeks at that—why his simple, honest words make my heart race. It’s not like I had parents who told me I talked too much. Even my new family has put up with it; they haven’t made me feel like I need to shrink. I didn’t grow up being told I was too much—unless you count all the other people I met in passing.

I hold his eye, still up through my lashes as if really looking up would invite something dangerous.

Aria, bless her, saves me. Her paw slaps the bench, and I glance down with Damien at her huge eyes and fluffy pelt. She pounces off and I smile after her. Damien really does need her, I think. He’s too lonely out there in the woods, no matter how much he might pretend he prefers it that way. Anyone with eyes should see it. Or maybe I’m the only one looking hard enough to do something about it.

The last of my drink is a big gulp; I drink it down, determined to make the flush in my face from that rather than whatever his low, gravelled voice always seems to do. There’s no heat—it goes down like water.

Yikes. Not sure if I’ve ever been this buzzed before. Or drunk. Maybe this is drunk. Everything blurs a little at the edges, giving the lanterns a soft gold halo.

I watch Damien rise, bright eyes tracking him like he’s the focal point of the night, not the lanterns or Edrei or anyone else.

He holds his hand out for me to take, and… I catch something like mischief lightening his face, like he knows a secret I should know but don’t. I can’t help the crooked smile as I slip my small hand into his broad one, roughened by work where mine are only just forming new calluses from my weapons.

I’m suddenly thinking of the cave again, when I’d been held and gentled to sleep. Somehow this feels as intimate as that.

I rise, hand still clasped in his, and I follow into the damp grass, still stubbornly green in the face of impending Deepfrost. I keep my hand in his, numb fingers suddenly bright and warm with feeling. It’s good to have him to hang onto—the world sways just so, enough that I have to bite down a giggle. But he’s grounding. Steadfast. I know he wouldn’t let me fall.

And then I see what he was seeing. I stop beside him, my smile growing and softening all at once. The sky is just barely overcast; below, fireflies flicker to life out of the grass, more and more appearing like scattered embers.

“No wonder there are so few stars,” I say absently. “They’re all right here.”

I look up at Damien; something in my chest swells, bright and warm and nearly too much to contain. Only then do I realize I’m still holding his hand, and I curl my fingers almost imperceptibly tighter, a gentle squeeze—

And then I curl in and hug him, head tucking into his chest in a familiar way, arms slipping around his ribs to his back. I tell myself it’s fine if he doesn’t hold me back, if he pushes me away. Maybe it’s the cider. It’s got to be the cider—but it feels nice, and there’s his heartbeat again and…

A firefly lands on his shoulder, just in front of my face. My eyes widen; I smile, and one arm slips carefully free. I cup my hand over the flickering bug, closing my fist gingerly so I don’t hurt it, then lean back, a hand still at his back, and show him the little light pulsing between my fingers.

“Maybe it’s good luck for one to land on you,” I say. “Never heard anyone say it before, but it’s gotta be, right?”

I open my hand. The little bug doesn’t fly away just yet, wandering my palm, lighting beneath folded wings—a small, steady glow that seems to echo the golden warmth pulsing through my veins when I look back up at Damien with a smile.

a million dreams are keeping me awake

Damien

i'm trying to run from our pride

She looked up at him through her lashes and it knocked something loose in his chest. That little half-daring glance—like she was weighing whether it was safe to really look at him—felt sharper than any blade she could draw. Lanternlight bled across her face, catching the flush on her cheeks, and he wasn’t sure what belonged to the cider and what belonged to him. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

Her hand in his had already been something, small and warm against his calloused palm, but when she stepped in and wrapped her arms around him—hell, it near stole the air from his lungs. He froze a beat too long, then gave in, arms circling her with a steadiness that felt like it belonged to another life, some gentler one. She fit easy against him, like maybe she’d been meant to tuck herself there all along. His cheek brushed the top of her head, and for a second, just a second, he let himself lean into it.

A smile found its way to his mouth, slow and unbidden. Not the sharp tug of a smirk, not something he thought to control; just the kind of small, soft thing she seemed able to conjure from him without even trying. Dangerous, he thought quietly.

When she pulled back, showing him the glow curled in her palm, he tilted his head, eyes catching on the little ember-light that pulsed against her skin. “If it wasn't lucky before, it is now,” he murmured, voice low and certain, as if he could bend truth into place by saying it. He watched her smile, and the thought hit him—damn, she was brighter than any lantern.

Aria bounded through the grass nearby, snapping at stray sparks of light, her tail lashing like a banner. Damien glanced down at her, then at the empty glass he’d carried this far. The drink was gone, but maybe it could hold something better. He stepped further into the field as he tipped the glass, careful, catching a few blinking fireflies against its curve. Their light bounced, refracted, tiny stars spinning in a little bottle.

He straightened and turned back to face Theea so the captured light spilled across her face. For a moment that felt longer than it was, he only watched her, the fireflies' glow refracting in her bright eyes until it felt like he’d trapped something more dangerous than a bug. His throat worked, but no words came—just the sudden, sharp awareness of how close she stood, how her warmth pressed against the rough edge of his guard.

He didn’t kiss her. Gods knew he wanted to—wanted to lean down and see if the smile on her mouth tasted as unsteady as it made him feel—but the thought alone had his ribs locking tight. It wasn’t exactly fear. No, nothing so simple. It was an old instinct to keep what mattered at arm’s length, to hold back before something could be taken from him. The silence between them stretched, full in a way that left his pulse thrumming like a drum.

When it became too much, he tipped the glass toward the cub instead, letting Aria’s paws bat at it, fierce as though she’d caught prey of her own. The distraction worked; the tension eased. “Be gentle now, Aria. See?” he murmured, voice low as he cracked the rim just enough to free the flickers of light. They rose skyward, joining the others scattered through the autumn air.

He rose then, brushing the grass from his palms, and offered his arm out to Theea without hesitation. “We should get back,” he suggested, quieter than before, almost tentative, “before people start wondering where that bottle went off to.” He winked. It wasn’t an escape, not really—just the only way he knew to carry the moment forward without breaking it.

'til you set fire to my atmosphere

Theea

cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head

His arms close around me. Why does that surprise me so much? Yes, he froze, just for a moment, but now he's holding me, and in the haze I'm in, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world. Enough that I'm surprised I'm not glowing like my uncle does when he's full of emotions too big to contain.

When he releases me, I'm still smiling, and I watch him step away with his glass. I sway a bit in place, but I'm steady enough right? He bends down in a way I'm sure would topple me over right now, and he carefully gathers little lightning bugs into his empty glass. I smile softly, and I do step toward him, leaning slightly, peeking at what he's doing.

And then he rises, he turns with his captured fireflies, and for a moment I'm taken by the little lights dancing in the glass, eyes glimmering, smile curving. 

I look up, and he's right there. Close enough to feel his body heat. A hot rush curls through me, flaring low in my ribs, sending my heart into an uneven rhythm. The glow of the fireflies outlines his face, glints in his dark eyes. I don't even look at the fireflies now - just him. The intensity of the look he gives me, the way his lips part like he's about to say something, do something.

I trace the shape of them with my eyes. There's something stretched taut between us, threatening to break, weakening my legs and making me want to reach up and touch him, to learn the shape of him, to...

To what?

I hold my breath... and the moment loosens. His attention turns to Aria, and I blink down at the ground for a moment.

I'd wanted him to kiss me.

The realization is startling, so much so that I shove it away, somewhere it can't scare me or do damage to a friendship I'm trying so hard to cultivate. His trust his precious, his presence so steady in a world that's unfamiliar to me. I'm at home with him in my travel clothes and worn jackets and sparring and hunting and building things.

I focus on Aria, or try to. It's hard now, especially as he does the best part of catching fireflies - letting them go.

That helps breath ease back into my lungs, watching a whole smattering of them rise into the air. "That's always my favorite part," I murmur. "Like Safrin swept new constellations into the sky." I can't help my warm smile, remembering the story of Ronin and Vanya sailing the stars together. I think this could be a taste of that. A flicker, a breath, half a heartbeat of being held by the stars with someone... important to you.

I'm drawn back down to earth by Damien's voice, and I nod, almost regretfully. "Right," I say. "I don't need a pair of assassins looking for me anyways." My parents will wonder where I am, and something tells me it isn't the right time for them to meet him again - when he isn't delivering me back home after following him somewhere I shouldn't have.

I toss him a crooked smile at his wink, and I absolutely do take his arm. Steady where I most definitely am not. I let him lead, because I stumble with the third step, giggling at the clumsiness, apologizing. Laughing again because I have to lean on him so much. Smiling because he lets me.

My parents are both amused by my state when I finally, reluctantly, part ways with him and find them. We go back to our inn for the night, and I try very, very hard not to think about the way he looked at me when I finally lay down in the inn.

FIN

a million dreams are keeping me awake