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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Dan Heng

tw: fluff, dragon (?) courting rituals, yearning, reader is oblivious, fluff~

Dan Heng kisses you like a dragon who has starved for centuries and now finds himself trembling with the terror and bliss of being fed at last.

The Astral Express hums low and steady outside his door, the rhythm of its voyage lulling the train into midnight quiet. Everyone else is asleep: March curled in her blanket, Caelus absorbed in dreams too heavy for waking words, even Pom-Pom is nowhere to be found tucked away. 

Everyone except you two.

You are tucked against the wall of his archive, seated comfortably on his futon as if it were a casual place to rest and not the nest of a Vidyadhara, layered and softened through instinct older than Xianzhou Luofu. You don't realize the weight of what it means to sit there. You don't recognize that you are in the heart of his den, where no one else has ever been allowed. You don't see his desperate pursuit.

He has been subtle at first: the small offerings left for you, pebbles smoothed to glass by river currents, shards of crystal glimmering faintly when the lamp light catches them. Some from his personal collection, some from the planets that you've visited together. Small, pretty trinkets you found by your bedside or on the edge of your desk. You smiled when you noticed them, touched them curiously, even asked if March had left them there. 

Dan Heng had only looked away, ears faintly red.

He tried even harder. He has let his horns show around you, curved bones gleaming in the light of the monitors. He has let his tail slip into being, coils of scales patterned like green fire. He has even guided your hand once, wordless, to rest against one curved horn, shuddering when you touched him there. But you only smiled at the strange intimacy, never seeing it for the desperate language it was.

He understood it, truly. After all, Vidyadhara court with rituals humans cannot name. High Elders love as though eternity could collapse, and Dan Heng, reborn countless times, weary with centuries, wants, for the first time in all his lives, to bind himself to another.

And your obliviousness did nothing to soothe the aching need in his chest.

You just sit there, in his nest, glancing up at him with the restrained interest. His tail shifts, flicking once against the floor before stilling. Tonight, his horns caught your gaze again.

“Do you manifest them when you’re tired?” you ask softly, too innocent, too oblivious.

His lips press into the faintest line because no, Dan Heng manifests them for you. Because Vidyadhara don't court in words. They show. They reveal. They bare themselves to the ones they have chosen.

“Not always,” he breaths out, and you don't see the longing in his eyes, paying more attention to the old book that you hold. You hum in response, eyes on the worn-out page.

“...Aeons don’t dream-” you murmur absently, changing the topic and tilting your head as you reread a line aloud, “-do they?”

Dan Heng exhales slowly, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He rises from the chair, each movement deliberate, shadow falling long across the futon as he steps closer.

“Probably not in the way we do,” he answers, voice low, careful, almost too measured.

The futon shifts when he sits beside you. The air changes, pressing in on your lungs with a quiet density. His presence has always been a calming one, but now, with his horns brushing close to your temple, his tail curled faintly against the futon’s edge, the weight of him is unbearable. The book stills under your hand as you gaze curiously. You can feel his heat even without touching him.

“...You shouldn’t stay up too late,” he murmurs after a silence that burns at both ends. His hand shifts, hesitates, then settles gently on yours.

You blink at him. “Why? You don’t sleep early, either.”

“I-” Dan Heng cuts himself off. His throat works, words faltering where they should flow. His hand stays over yours, firm now, anchoring himself on you.

Tonight, that naive blindness of yours gnaws at Dan Heng. He watches you read from his Aeon texts, lips pursed, your gaze drifting over a history of gods while you sit in the nest he has built for you, utterly unknowing that you are his chosen.

Dan Heng finally shifts, and his horns angle low, framing your face like a cage. His tail slides around your waist, dragging against the futon as it coils possessively over your hip. The book slips from your hands. Your breath stutters when he pins you down with nothing but his presence.

“Do you know what you are to me?” His voice is low, rough, pulled taut by restraint.

“Dan Heng?…” You whisper his name as though it could save you from drowning.

His answer is a kiss.

It crashes into you like a tide breaking stone. His mouth claims yours with a force that startles, hunger uncoiled after too many days of silence. His lips are insistent, dragging your lower lip between his fangs. The strange slide of his forked tongue presses into your mouth with an intimate invasion, curling to taste the shape of you. Dan Heng groans, low and guttural, chest vibrating against yours as if the simple touch sears Imbibitor Lunae alive in his veins.

You squirm beneath him, half shocked, half entranced. He stills you, pinning you deeper into the futon, his weight caging you, his tail tightening its hold until you are wrapped under him, unable to move. The kiss is deep, molten, and dragging. His horns brush your forehead when he lowers his head further, pressing closer, caging you between bone and flash. Your trembling fingers rise to grasp his broad shoulders. Dan Heng shudders violently when you answer his desperate hope with your mouth, and his breath tears out ragged, his tongue strokes yours again in a long drag that feels like a vow written in heat.

“Mine,” he growls against your lips, a sound so primal you barely recognize it as his voice.

“You sit in my nest. You take what I give. You touch my horns. And still, you don’t see it.” His forehead presses to yours, breath hot, words spilling over you like flame.

“I’ve courted you as my kind does. Do you accept me?”

You stare up at him, pulse frantic, the realization beginning to dawn.

“Dan Heng… you-”

He cuts you off with another kiss, slower now, more devastating. His tongue coils languidly into your mouth, tasting, coaxing, drawing you in until your lungs burn. His hands cradle your jaw, trembling slightly, as if he fears the fragility of your bones beneath his strength. His tail winds tighter, a loop across your stomach, anchoring you in place as though you might vanish.

When he parts from you, his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, pupils in slits, glinting with a hunger that is more than physical. His voice breaks when he speaks, rough and aching.

“I can’t promise you a life unbroken by cycles of rebirth. But I can give you all that I am now and every fragment of me that survives.” His thumb drags across your swollen lower lip.

“Stay. You are a human, small and fragile, but please, stay… Let me build my eternity around you, and I carry the memory into the deeper space until my bones wither.”

Aventurine

tws: pure fluff and yearning, Aventurine's past mentions, you two are in lov e hihi

Aventurine kisses you like the final roll of the dice in a game where the prize is everything he has ever wanted, where the stakes are not just wealth or power but the fragile thing that is you. 

The night is quiet outside your shared apartment, the soft hum of the IPC offices a distant lull, yet here, in your bed, the universe narrows until nothing exists beyond the press of your skin against his. Naked and tangled together after the fevered abandon of lovemaking, Kakavasha molds his body against yours as if you could become one. He holds you like you are the rarest treasure, the one thing in all the cosmos he cannot gamble away. Between you, silence settles. Every heartbeat is a confession. Every sigh is a vow.

Aventurine threads his fingers through your hair, tugging you just slightly closer, as if the world outside could only exist if you were in his arms. You trace small kisses over his jaw, his temple, his cheek in response, each one whispered and feather-light, as if the fragility of this moment could shatter under too much weight. His lips part with a sigh as your fingers brush the terrible mark on his neck, a scar that tells stories of survival, of tragedy, of a boy who was sold, abandoned, and yet rose to power.

You whisper his real name, "Kakavasha", and the sound of it trembles on your lips. His eyes close, glimmering with something heartbreakingly tender, and he tilts his head to capture your mouth with his.

He wants to answer, but words are useless when the press of your body against his says it all. He folds himself around you, every curve, every line of muscle pressing as if to become one with you, as if breathing is impossible without the warmth of your skin, without your tender heartbeat against his. Your hands roam over the scarred skin of his back, touching, tracing, memorizing, grounding him.

He tears himself from you only to murmur, "I love you," more to himself than to you, a promise that tomorrow is worth waking up for because you exist, because you are here.

After all, you keep chosing him.

Aventurine kisses you again, this time with a fierceness that contradicts the gentleness of before, holding you with a hunger that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with devotion. Each press of his lips carries the weight of every gamble he has ever taken, every life he has lost, every calculated risk that led him here, to you. You feel the faint shiver of vulnerability beneath his strength, the rare glimpse of a man who doesn’t hide behind smiles or charm, who is simply Kakavasha in your arms.

You return his kiss softly, letting him feel your certainty.

When you part, he buries his face in your shoulder like a child, inhaling the faint trace of your shampoo, the soothing scent of your skin. His hands slide down your back, the pads of his fingers brushing the sensitive skin along your spine, mapping every inch of you, committing it to memory. You laugh softly when he nips at your collarbone, a sharp contrast to his previous neediness, a small display that breaks the tension and reminds you that he is human, flawed, and perfect all at once. Aventurine hums against your neck, a sound of contentment and need, and you tilt your head to press your forehead to his.

You trace the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the faint crease between his brows, and he leans into your touch, eyes glazed, sighing as if every worry has dissolved into the simplicity of being held. You whisper his name again,"Kakavasha", and he clutches you tighter, not wanting to let go. He nuzzles his nose against yours in a small display of affection, and a giggle escapes him. You mirror him, pressing back, laughing softly as your noses brush together again and again. His giggle vibrates through you with a mixture of joy, relief, and a pain that only someone who has survived everything alone can carry.

He buries his face in your collarbone after a few seconds, wrapping you impossibly close, murmuring your name like a prayer. His fingers rub small circles over your hipbone as he sighs against your chest. You kiss the top of his head, letting the warmth of your body remind him that home is not a place, but a person.

Just like this, you both drift into sleep, clinging to each other as if the night itself might steal the moment away. Kakavasha is finally calm, knowing that when morning comes, he will wake with your name on his lips, still wholly, achingly in love with you.

The Great Herta

tws: horny scholars (1/2), possessive behaviour, dollification(?) , you are her assistant.

Herta kisses you like the taste of your lips could be cataloged and studied, archived in her mind alongside all the brilliant formulas and theories she cherishes.

The Genius leans in a bit too close in her pristine laboratory, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the faint scent of antiseptic and exotic metals surrounding you both. Her sharp eyes glint as she tilts your chin upward with one demanding finger. Her other hand lingers over the fabric of your clothes as if deciding how best to alter them, how best to dress you in her aesthetic of controlled perfection.

You’ve always been plain, almost painfully ordinary. Just a statistic in a world that seems to value the extraordinary. But to Herta, that ordinariness is a canvas, a vessel she can shape. You shift uneasily under her scrutiny, acutely aware that her mind is racing far ahead, calculating, analyzing something that you couldn't even dream of comprehending.

“Assistant,” she says, stepping back just enough to examine you fully with her head tilted, one hand on her hip in that imperious stance you’ve learned to recognize, “I’ve been thinking… we should make a doll of you. A miniature, perfect replica of you.”

Her eyes spark with a mischievous glint, and you can almost hear the little hum of pride that always accompanies her genius. But those words make your chest tighten with something ugly.

“A doll… of me?” you whisper, uncertain. Her words send the cold brush of reality against your skin, the knowledge that perhaps she sees you as nothing more than an object, a vessel to satisfy her obsessive whims.

“Herta… I- I don’t know if that’s-”

“Shh,” she interrupts, observing you like a predator admiring a prize. Her fingers trace lightly along your jawline, brushing your lips, eliciting a shiver.

“So predictable. You worry you are insufficient for me, don’t you?”

Before you can respond, she closes the distance, pinning you gently yet unrelentingly against the cool, sterile wall. Her lips press to yours, firm and possessive, and you can feel the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in her body, betraying how deeply her feelings really are.  She presses her finger against your chest, right over your heart, and you avert your gaze in shame.

“You underestimate yourself. To me, you are extraordinary. But I want everyone else to know it too, and that is why dolls are necessary. Each of you for each of me.”

You remember the fleeting glimpse of Herta's fury when she saw another staff member leaning too close to you the other day. It was a rare tantrum that left her sharp and glowing with barely restrained possessiveness. And now, pressed against her, you understand fully: the Member #83 of the Genius Society wants you, all of you, and she is not willing to share even a fragment of your attention.

“I only wanted to make puppets of you for… emotional purposes,” she whispers against your lips, and you taste a mixture of steel and honey in her breath. Her hands are on your waist, pressing you closer, claiming the space that is hers by right.

“So that no one- no one- dares to flirt with you again. Do you understand?” Her gaze pierces yours, unapologetic and intensely focused. You nod, and she tugs at your collar, pressing possessive kisses over your neck. They bloom into the purple immediately, and you let out a small moan that makes her smirk.

“I- Miss Herta, someone might walk in,” you murmur nervously, still conscious of the pristine environment and the potential dangers. Her eyes only flash with defiance and amusement.

“Irrelevant. I am more concerned with you than with trivial intrusions-" her tone is unyielding but carries the same intoxicating vulnerability she rarely allows anyone to glimpse, "-and I demand your kisses.” She tilts your head to the side again, waiting, her breath brushing your mouth as she leans her forehead against yours.

“Come on,” she says, a sly smirk playing on her perfect lips, “create some problems with me~”

You can feel the weight of her desire hanging heavy over you. It is intense, concentrated, possessive, a tidal force contained within the curve of her lips and the precise placement of her hands. Your fingers curl against her waist in a desperate need to answer her invitation. Herta lets you lean in, humming contentedly, her plush lips demanding more and more affection. Even if you try to take the lead, in this dance, it's she who puts on the music and adjusts the rhythm.

When you part, smooth hands trail along your arms, thumbs brushing over your skin in patterns that feel both instructional and intimate. Herta adjusts your posture, your shoulders, the tilt of your chin, and each movement is both a study and a possession.

“There,” she murmurs, her voice softening just enough to send shivers down your spine, “much better. You are… my perfect little assistant.”

Your chest tightens with a mix of anxiety and longing. You’ve never felt so simultaneously admired and scrutinized, so observed and yet protected. In her usual brilliance, Herta senses the swirl of your emotions, and a faint smirk curls her lips. 

“Ah… there it is. That little hesitation again. That tiny doubt. It is what makes you human… yet to me, it only makes you more desirable.” She presses another kiss to your lips, lingering longer, her tongue tracing the barest outline of your mouth in a possessive way. You gasp softly, overwhelmed by the intensity of her attention.

“I could spend eternity studying you like this,” she murmurs, “Exploring every nuance, every reaction… And I'll always want more-” her fingers tighten slightly around your wrists, “and more,” she repeats firmly, "and more," her voice dropping into a tone that is equal parts commanding and vulnerable.

“I want to show you that you are more than enough. That your existence is extraordinary to me.”

By the time Herta steps back, your cheeks flushed and your lips tingling, she is grinning that brilliant, infuriating grin of hers.

“Tonight,” she murmurs, “I will prove again that you are more than a statistic. That you are enough. More than enough. And you will understand exactly how exquisite it is to be mine.”

Dr. Ratio

tws: horny scholars (2/2), explicit content, anal sex (to keep reader gender-netural), Ratio is kinda autistic but hopelessly in love.

Dr. Ratio kisses you like a theorem being folded into skin, precise and inevitable, each angle tested until the solution holds. 

By day Veritas is all about economy and measurement, kissing you while staring at some complex mathematical equations. Those kisses are never loud, never needy; they are the soft gratitude for your visits to his university office with a warm meal, pressed absentmindedly to your cheek, nose, or jaw. It is a tiny algebra of affection that Ratio tucks away and solves later in the privacy of his head. 

But when evening folds the hallways into shadow and the outside noises thin to a hush, his restraint dissolves like chalk in rain. The office door clicks; the stacks of papers become a faraway island where his mind is no longer needed. Veritas closes his codex with an audible click, the sound of his focus snapping shut, and the man who has mapped the geometry of everything gives himself over to something he cannot reduce to theorem. 

Ratio comes home and he comes to you.

The time before bed is when his mind slows down. The lights dim to the soft halo of a single lamp in the corner of your bedroom. You curl under the sheets with a worn romance novel, pages dog-eared where you favor the sentences. Veritas lays to your side with a slab of a book that folds logic into tight knots. For a while you read in companionable silence, the quiet of evening hours folding around you.

Then his book slides shut. He does not look embarrassed or theatrical about the motion, Veritas makes it decisive because precision is comfort to him. Slowly, he folds himself into the space on your side, until his long limbs tangle with yours. He is ungainly in the gentlest way because all his competence is reserved for equations and experiments, not for the small choreography of tenderness. His head rests heavy on your chest, ear pressed against your sternum, and you feel him breathe as if inhaling the sum of you.

Then, his lips begin their path along the valley of your front. He finds the beat of your heart near your collarbone and linger as if mesmerised by the proof of living. Then upper, along the column of your throat and the line of your jaw. 

When his lips finally find yours, the kiss is long and interrogative, searching for a metric that will hold. You wrap your arms around him, books forgotten, and he relaxes like a student who finally understands the theorem. Ratio hums against your mouth, voice soft with the astonishment of not being able to solve the shape of you.

“You are… hard to quantify,” he murmurs, voice bright and brittle against your cheek. 

“Let me try again. For science.”

For a moment his tone is cold, like the plaster head that he wears. Then his hands find your hips and the atmosphere changes. Veritas studies your curves again and again as if he can catalog every centimeter and reaction. His touch is expert because he knows your architecture by heart. He has traced these maps in countless moments, memorized the angles where you tremble. Slim fingers that explore between your thighs are warm and insistent.

Ten minutes later, you kneel on the bed, warm and ready for him, your back arched and your lips parted. Ratio positions himself behind you with that same efficiency he applies to everything he learns. His hands hook under your armpits to pull you closer. His chest presses to your back and his mouth finds the patch of skin at your neck, sucking and whispering small nothings.

Veritas pushes in slowly, not because he is tentative but because he is calibrating. The stretch is exquisite and welcomed, and he monitors your face as if checking instruments. His hips angle just how you like it, then snap with a delicious rhythm that surprises him into a mistimed grunt. 

“So tight,” he breathes, each word a punctuation mark. “You are exquisite,” he adds, voice breaking on the last syllable. He sucks at the nape of your neck with a muffled praise.

And when he id finally moves, it feels like a fireworks bollm under your eyelids. Its savoury, its achingly desperate, it makes your body tremble and burns in your stomach. It better than any action that you have had before meeting the pompous scholar.

And mind you, he is also affected by the feeling of you. You squeeze him so tight, take him so well and snug that Ratio goes cross-eyed behind you in a best possible way. He dirty talks in the way only he can: factual fragments that turn erotic because of the heat in his voice. 

“I am filling you-” he says, absurd in its textbook bluntness, “-and this is optimal. You are calibrated to my geometry.” 

Between those clinical confessions Veritas groans and stumbles on metaphors, alternating between ownership and worship. His stare softens into something unguarded, zeroing in on how your face contorts in pleasure.

"I must be violating every protocol," he pants, "but your compliance yields the most efficient results." His voice is rougher when he speaks mid-thrust.

"I like the way you compress, the way you take me. Measure me with your insides again," Ratio commands and then is aghast at his own wantonness. You push back on the trembling legs, meeting his rhythm with an urgency.

Veritas groans your name – he is terrible at pet names, so it comes out simple – then laughs, breathless and thrilled, the sound reverberating against your back as he speeds up, letting you get more addicted to being full of him. 

He kisses the back of your neck again and again, mouth hot and wet, while his work in a rhythm that is nothing like the measured beats of his laboratory metronome. His hands are merciless and precise, fingers digging into the softness of your hips, thumbs pressing into the curve where your ribs fold into your waist.

You come apart with a cry that is animal in the best possible way. Ratio follows not long after with a stuttered arch, his body shuddering against yours as he fills you.  

The aftercare is your favorite time. Ratio lays you down gently on the sheets, tucking you in like a puzzle piece he refuses to lose. Then he traces the line of your spine with his fingers, murmuring instructions into the air: “Breathe with me for ten counts,” “Stay still,” “Are you warm enough?” “I’ll bring you some water.”

The next morning Veritas is in his office at 8.00 am sharp, as usual, preparing for the long day of curing idiocy. The room hums softly with the sound of his measured steps as he gathers the materials for the lessons he must teach.

Yet everything he touches feels meaningless without you.

His notebook lies open on the desk, and in the corner your name is written with delicate precision, enclosed by countless little hearts that he has traced over and over until the ink began to smudge. A framed photo of you rests on the desk, glass slightly stained with his lip-prints, as though by kissing the glass he might commit every detail of your face deeper into his memory. Even the open page of his notes betrays his usual coldness, for there again your name lingers, ringed by those small desperate hearts, each mark proof of a love so consuming it spills past his control and stains everything he touches.

Feixiao

tws: no ho nry scholars in this one, only longing foxians, angsty, hurt/comfort

Feixiao kisses you like someone afraid of forgetting what love tastes like, as if every brush of her lips must etch itself into memory before war or fate can steal it away.

The mist over Rainsoar Lake clings to your clothes, to your lashes, to the hollow of your throat when you watch a peaceful landscape in front of you. Yellow heart blossoms drift past, landing on the water's surface like a golden blanket. Fishes leap and clap water against the air, gulls of sound in the hush.

Something shifts behind you.

"You always do this," you say, voice small in the mist. "Sneak up on me and then act like it is my fault for not noticing you."

Feixiao laughs with a sound that scatters the mist into finer beads. Her hand finds your body immediately and her fingers possessively curl around your waist.

"I knew you would be here," she says, stepping in front of you, blocking the peaceful scenery. When you frown at the audacity, she smirks and steals a sly peck from your lips.

Immediately, you relax in her gentle embrace. Your hands crawl under her coat, to the scar on her back that runs like a calligraphy stroke, painting the ail skin with pinkish hue. Now, you can recall its shape from memory. It’s narrow, but crude. But most importantly, you know that this is an old road she refuses to walk now but that still defines the direction of her steps.

In the lamplight of the lake, every scar of hers looks like a constellation. You trace them with your fingertips, and Feixiao lets out a sound that is not entirely a grunt but something closer to a purr.

The blossoms press their perfume into the air, sweet and heavy, and the petals stick to her coat and to your hair. Each time a fish explodes from the lake you see the motion in her jaw and the twitch in her ears: the hunt that is both memory and promise. You know your touch helps to keep her steady, so you keep soothing her aches with your hands.

"Feixiao," you murmur her name, because speech will not be wasted even under water and under mist. She shifts closer and her answer is a softer thing than you expected.

"You say it as if you are making a promise," she says against your lip. Her voice is a low thing, cheeky and dangerous, a soldier's laugh. "Say it again."

So you do.

“Feixiao,” the syllables come out like an offering.

Foxian hums and kisses you properly then, like a beast who has learned the art of gentling her touch. It is soft at first, too measured and almost ethereal. Her mouth fits around yours with the confidence of someone who knows where to press so things will not break.

But of course, there is a hidden wildness there because Feixiao is made of storms. When you part your lips, yearning, inviting, the kiss deepens, teeth and tongue finding one another in a soft insistence. Her hands move, one cupping your face with an intimacy that cracks something open inside you. The other firm hand slides down to your waist, anchoring you to her.

"You are warm-" Feixiao says suddenly, breaking the kiss long enough to press her forehead to yours. Rain threads down the fur on her ear, forehead, cheek, and finally mixes with the tears you didn’t notice you cried, "-and dangerous for me."

You laugh, small and breathless, because you want to soothe her aches so badly, yet you know that it is never enough to calm the beast inside her mind.

"You are supposed to be the dangerous one. You carry the title," the only thing you can say through the bile in your throat.

She snorts with amusement.

"Great General-" Feixiao repeats, using the title everyone uses to make her larger than a simple human, “-is a Lacking one.”

Her confession presses even harder into your heart. It’s not the emotion fully, no. It blooms like a poisoned flower between your ribs. You reach for the sprouting weed there, and Feixiao frames your hand in hers as if to show you a map of your own body.

The rain gathers around the syllables, approving or indifferent, you cannot decide. A fish keeps leaping near the reeds, scattering droplets that sparkle like punctuation. Feixiao smiles, and the fox in her creases into something softer, something younger and girlish at once.

"Will you spend this night with me?" she asks, absurdly direct as always.

You answer honestly, because loving her rewards bluntness.

"I will. And I will not-" you hesitate, because there are vows you cannot make for battles she might have to fight alone, "-I will never ever leave your side," you feel the tears build up again.

"Good," Feixiao says, and then kisses you again, this time slower and more deliberate. Her teeth gently press at the seam of your lower lip as if checking for breakage. The kiss becomes a conversation without words.

At one point she pulls back to look at you again, rainwater beading at the lashes of her teal-ringed eyes. There is the flash of something very old inside them.

"Stay."

You do stay, because you want to be a witness and harbour, because you want to be the calm island in a life seamed with storms.

You rest your hand against the scar at her collarbone, and Feixiao leans into the pressure as if it is the only thing steady in a changing world. Around you the lotuses bob and the turtles blink. A fish makes another impatient splash. The rain continues its soft, tireless hymn.

"Promise me… nothing-" she says after a long moment, voice low and absolute, "-but this: if I ever become the hunter and you will be my pray,“ she stills because this one thought, that she could hurt you of all people, almost makes her gag from fear. Yet, she continues, “-make me remember this moment. Make me remember that you will meet me with a kiss upon returning."

You smile, and the smile is a promise to be cherished.

“I will.”