11-16-2025, 01:45 PM
T U M U L T
“Perhaps it did,” he answers her, storm-gray eyes sweeping across her face, a smile flickering along with the lightning. “I suppose we will have to wait and see what that reason is.” It almost sounds like flirting, although he has yet to master the art of being charming on purpose. He spends too much time in his own head, turning over his failures — the storms he never fully learned to command, and that endless sense of drifting without a point to anchor him.
He is not immune to beautiful women, though, and the proof is out there somewhere in the form of children he sired. She is a beautiful woman, too, but he has the self-awareness to know to tread carefully. He has never been a thing meant for staying; much like his storms, he had a tendency of blowing through and fading away. The faces of past flings — if they can even be called that — have blurred beyond recognition, and he doesn’t want her to become just another victim to the storm he uses to break up the stillness.
So he tells himself he will take this for what it is: a quiet crossing of paths in a meadow, a brief filling of his solitude with someone else’s voice and warmth.
He knows that is what he should do, but the way she looks at him and the way she gravitates towards the rain that falls from him tells him he will have a hard time letting her walk away.
Nearly imperceptibly he shifts forward, that space between them shrinking just slightly. He had no control over the lightning across his skin, but there is a moment where it seems to flash brighter, faster, as if feeding off an invisible current. He notices the way the sunlight glints off the vibrant strands in her mane, and wonders what they would feel like beneath his lips.
“Where are you from?” He asks her a question instead of touching her, keeping them suspended in this moment where he has not yet made any kind of mistake and she is still just a beautiful stranger in the meadow.
He is not immune to beautiful women, though, and the proof is out there somewhere in the form of children he sired. She is a beautiful woman, too, but he has the self-awareness to know to tread carefully. He has never been a thing meant for staying; much like his storms, he had a tendency of blowing through and fading away. The faces of past flings — if they can even be called that — have blurred beyond recognition, and he doesn’t want her to become just another victim to the storm he uses to break up the stillness.
So he tells himself he will take this for what it is: a quiet crossing of paths in a meadow, a brief filling of his solitude with someone else’s voice and warmth.
He knows that is what he should do, but the way she looks at him and the way she gravitates towards the rain that falls from him tells him he will have a hard time letting her walk away.
Nearly imperceptibly he shifts forward, that space between them shrinking just slightly. He had no control over the lightning across his skin, but there is a moment where it seems to flash brighter, faster, as if feeding off an invisible current. He notices the way the sunlight glints off the vibrant strands in her mane, and wonders what they would feel like beneath his lips.
“Where are you from?” He asks her a question instead of touching her, keeping them suspended in this moment where he has not yet made any kind of mistake and she is still just a beautiful stranger in the meadow.
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
@Tipitina