[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map He brings his broad face close to hers, his voice a growl on her lips, teasing, prying, a dangerous game. It takes every force of will she possesses to hold back the shiver, a shuddering surrender which stirs within her soul. She smiles at him, wide and jubilant, a speck of sunlight caught between his hands, glittering and beaming under his touch. Leaning in slightly, the breadth of a hair, Amalia narrows the gap between them until she can feel his beard, her nose on his, his lips less than a breath away. He is heat beneath her body, a fire even through their distance, and it is everything she has not to give in, to crash against it and burn and burn, to lace her heart along with his and let him carry her away. Dark eyes stare into tantalizing blue: "Hi," she repeats, a little deeper, a little huskier, a little closer to something dangerous, something wild and willful and indiscreet. Fingers untangle from his curls, snake and slide across his chin, closer and closer and closer until-- Boop! The girl draws back with a wicked grin, her index finger falling away from his nose, indulgent pleasure at her antics further illuminating her face. Springing lightly out of his reach (out of danger, because it's dangerous to be so close), she arches an eyebrow in rival challenge, inviting him to a new game. They are parted now, no longer touching, the greatest distance since those careful confessions, those cautious kisses and earnest oaths. The space between them gasps and gapes, screams to be closed, but she keeps it open, staring at the man. It is an invitation to pursue, a final excuse to escape, and into it Amalia breathes her only demand, "Catch me,", before spinning and darting away. A flash of green and gold and bronze, Amalia weaves through the fringes of the crowd, confident in his pursuit (but glancing back frequently, just in case). Bare toes dancing lightly on the grass, she laughs as she runs, her heartbeat fast, the mischief rekindled in her eyes. Always barely out of reach, lithe and limber and wild as a sprite, she leads him back to their flower crown, bending down delicately to scoop it up without pausing in her flight until she nears a copse of elms, three outliers at the edge of the field. Stopping in her quick retreat to lean like sunlight upon the bark, the baker turns to face the beast, garland turning lightly between her fingers, a playful smile on her face. She is ready to spring, to fly again, slip between his hands and make him hunt. "I don't know that you really want this-" and it is obvious from her tumultuous tone that she means far more than the circlet of blooms, is challenging for more than a gilded wreath. Unconsciously she licks her lips, remembering the almost-kiss, the moment of near-closeness a tantalizing thing. Should he try to lunge she will duck away, dexterous and deft, spinning around the trunk of the elm and emerging to grin from the other side. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back