She watches him, the dark silver mist from his wings drifting across her shoulder, the droplets catching the pale daylight like scattered stars. The drizzle from the tumult beads along the blades of grass, making the meadow shimmer with a thousand tiny mirrors. Each droplet on her coat cools her skin, a delicate weight, and she lets it sink into her senses. There’s a pause in his voice, deliberate and careful, and the heaviness behind it presses lightly against her chest, like the low hum of the earth before a storm. He’s carrying something in there… something she can’t name, and the tension coils between them like the curl of mist she remembers rising from the black water back home.
“Well…” she murmurs, soft and teasing, letting her words float over the rhythmic patter of rain, “perhaps the meadow called you for a reason.” The drizzle hisses against leaves and puddles, and she watches the light glint on the wet grass. “I can’t imagine you wandering here for no purpose at all.”
The faint shift of his wings brushes against her coat again, and the mist curls closer, dark silver tendrils wrapping around her shoulder like liquid storm clouds. She leans just slightly, letting droplets bead along her neck. “Or maybe,” she says, careful and slow, savoring the moment, “it just wanted to make sure I wasn’t entirely alone.”
She tilts her head, studying him. His storm-gray eyes reflect the muted light, heavy and thoughtful, and she finds herself caught in the patterns of his gaze. Interesting, she thinks, letting it linger. He doesn’t have to say anything, and she's already paying attention.
A soft hum escapes her, teasing but deliberate, drawn out like the distant call of a bird over the wet meadow. “I suppose we’ll just have to see what the meadow intended, then,” she murmurs, her words melting into the gentle hiss of rain on leaves.
Her gaze drifts over the puddled meadow, the inky mist from his wings spilling into the reflections, flickering across wet grass and petals that bend under the rain. She returns her eyes to him slowly, deliberately, letting the world shrink to the space they occupy. “And maybe…” her voice dips, warm and soft, “We can just stand in the rain.”
The drizzle falls steadily, a soft, constant rhythm, and the meadow seems to hold its breath with her. She shifts ever so slightly, letting his mist curl more warmly along her shoulder, sensing the subtle pulse of the earth beneath the soaked grass, the way the air carries both weight and possibility. She waits, letting the space between them thrum, letting him fill it or not.
@Tumult
“Well…” she murmurs, soft and teasing, letting her words float over the rhythmic patter of rain, “perhaps the meadow called you for a reason.” The drizzle hisses against leaves and puddles, and she watches the light glint on the wet grass. “I can’t imagine you wandering here for no purpose at all.”
The faint shift of his wings brushes against her coat again, and the mist curls closer, dark silver tendrils wrapping around her shoulder like liquid storm clouds. She leans just slightly, letting droplets bead along her neck. “Or maybe,” she says, careful and slow, savoring the moment, “it just wanted to make sure I wasn’t entirely alone.”
She tilts her head, studying him. His storm-gray eyes reflect the muted light, heavy and thoughtful, and she finds herself caught in the patterns of his gaze. Interesting, she thinks, letting it linger. He doesn’t have to say anything, and she's already paying attention.
A soft hum escapes her, teasing but deliberate, drawn out like the distant call of a bird over the wet meadow. “I suppose we’ll just have to see what the meadow intended, then,” she murmurs, her words melting into the gentle hiss of rain on leaves.
Her gaze drifts over the puddled meadow, the inky mist from his wings spilling into the reflections, flickering across wet grass and petals that bend under the rain. She returns her eyes to him slowly, deliberately, letting the world shrink to the space they occupy. “And maybe…” her voice dips, warm and soft, “We can just stand in the rain.”
The drizzle falls steadily, a soft, constant rhythm, and the meadow seems to hold its breath with her. She shifts ever so slightly, letting his mist curl more warmly along her shoulder, sensing the subtle pulse of the earth beneath the soaked grass, the way the air carries both weight and possibility. She waits, letting the space between them thrum, letting him fill it or not.
@Tumult