[Training] the cut of our cloth

Evie

i'll plant a row of daisy seeds
in the space beneath each eye

She’s no gloating winner, especially when it’s a miracle she won at all, so there’s nothing but the pleased grin is a display she will allow herself. He looks like a majestic forest deity with leaves in his hair and beard, bare skin gleaming in the firelight, orange and red dancing on the knotted, paler scars. Her hands twitch with the desire to paint him; either on canvas, or placing the pigment directly to his skin, so she might explore the valleys of his body with her brushes.

Shamelessly following the path of his hands as they pluck at his waistband to shove the last garment to his ankles, Evie’s eyes lid themselves, cobalt a shimmer of appreciative hues in the half-light. With her victory assured now she strides slowly across the stone floor, eradicating the space between them until she is a scant few inches from his chest, forced to look up to meet his eyes. Hands rise to gently settle on the sides of his waist, marveling at his warmth but not quite moving yet. “I find myself conveniently distracted and without ideas,” she teases, hands gently squeezing his side, firm instead of tickling. Evie tilts her chin up invitingly, the game and its ensuing prizes forgotten already. “Raincheck?” she murmurs.

so they'll remind you of your beauty
when they bloom each time you cry