Amalia
For my part, I know nothing with any certainty
She is making apple cakes when he arrives, the last batch about to slide in the oven as soon as there is enough room. It has been a productive day for Amalia, and she is in a good mood, humming as Deimos enters the bakery, black eyes glittering happily as she takes in his behemoth form. She wears his apron like a badge, the notebook abandoned on the small table in the front of the shop, a recipe half-scrawled within, lines crossed out and ingredients changed. She does not know why he is here, but she is glad to see him nonetheless, her heart swelling easily with affection for the man.Hands white with flour and a streak on her nose, Amalia is a heathen, barbaric thing, wearing the warpaint of her profession with something akin to pride. She glances up at the sound of his voice, a smile spiltting her usually anxious face, love and love and love again written in the lines, the curves, the blood. "Deimos," she greets on an inhalation, slipping lightly around for counter, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor.
Like a wraith, a wisp, the girl appears, materialising easily into his orbit, comfortable and keen in his near embrace, her arms draped comfortably over his shoulders, tiptoed and ardent in the quiet shop. "I need to finish this bake. Have a seat?" A kiss is offered, ghosting over his lips before she once more pulls away, leaving flecks of flour in his beard. Slipping back to the florid ovens Amalia cautiously opens the door, looking to see the state of her current pastries, perhaps a minute from being cooked.
"Jyo is... Around," the baker hums. "There's some apples from Rory on the counter. And cake should be ready soon."
but the sight of the stars makes me dream
