[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map His smile, once infrequent and fleeting, rises so easily now to his lips, breaking through that icy facade like a beam of sun on a summer day. How is it that he is now the vibrant one, a lighthouse for the lost girl who lives awash at sea? Yet lighthouse he is, warming and guiding, a firm beacon through wild storms that threaten to engulf and consume. Despite Amalia's deep discontent she cannot prevent the laugh which rises, deep and unbidden from the depths of her soul. Sable gaze flickers up to meet his face before retreating back to the grass between her toes. "I very much doubt it," comes the dry rebuke, sly sharp humor slipping through her insecurity, teasing and taunting, a careful unveiling of a bright inner form. Thoughtful, she nibbles on her lower lip, not sure what she wants from him but hopeful nonetheless. An image rises impishly to the forefront of her mind: his hands on hers, his laughter booming as he sweeps her out of her dram cocoon and into the light she so desperately yearns for. She wants to be captured, rescued, held-- Amalia shakes her golden head, dispersing those childish dreams. Deimos is not her savior, her lighthouse. He is more lost than she, uprooted from a life and home and left here, in this prison. No doubt he is aching to return to whatever it is he was torn from. Family, friends- a course grander than this, the small petty thing they call living. Her movement aligns with his next statement, and so she is able to recover, to mask the sudden storm of doubt beneath a fair response. "They are hard to catch." Why? Why is she doing this, clinging to each crumb like a starved child, holding onto hope that he wants this, wants her, that her friendship means more than warm bread on a winter day? And yet he planted the lavender, a small, insidious voice remarks, snagged on the memory of their pleasant afternoon. He came to your party. He agreed to dance. And another adage from her grandmother appears, spoken, again, in her warm, teasing voice. Do you really think so little of others, to believe they'd waste their time on someone they despise? And so the golden baker uncoils, turning her head up to stare at Deimos, dark eyes cautious and hopeful as she surveys his face. "A bottle of cider says I will wound more?" Half a question, half a statement: and Amalia extends a slender hand, giving him the choice to lead her from her darkness, to pull her along with him into the sun. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back