He would be afraid of her if he were not so in awe.
Would be terrified of the galaxies that she rips apart at the seams with the steady hand of a seamstress tearing fabric for a new dress. There is never any warmth in the looks that she casts his way, but he does not miss the heat. He would bask in the cold breath of her cosmos. Would gladly tip his face up to the dying star that she breathes forward, would let it wash over him like a stolen sunrise.
But he has no answer to give her.
Nothing that would please her, he thinks.
Nothing worthy of what she was capable of.
So he inhales, holding the breath in his lungs as he watches her turn away, turning her attention to things that are far more worthy of her attention than the sullen brute of a brother by her side.
When she looks back, he realizes that he still has no answer for her.
Finally, something comes to him, and if he is embarrassed by the simplicity of the answer, he does not shy from giving it to her—because he would give her anything, if she asked for it. As simple as his gifts are.
“Your favorite place,” he confesses.
Because he knows there is nowhere worth seeing more than what has captured her heart.
turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along