Her eldest daughter is a gift.
Lynx has never been able to view her as anything else. Even when she had first learned that she was with child—when that night with Fox turned into something more than she could have ever imagined—she had never been able to feel anything but love. That desperate desire to do right by her daughter. That crushing need to provide her with a love and stability that she had never found during her childhood; that desire to find something that her father had ripped away from her: something pure, something whole.
So she doesn’t hold back when Persea crushes into her chest. She just holds her closer, presses her lips to her poll and feels the beat of her heartbeat in tandem with the beat of her thoughts against her skull.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers, and it is more than just empty words. Lynx opens up her own mind and lets Persea see the whole of it—lets her see the unfiltered thoughts that pour through her. “We are going to figure this out,” she says softly, “as a family.” The second part comes a little more difficult. It is difficult to claim them as a family—to put that kind of trust into their dynamic—but Fox has never given her any reason to doubt him. He has been nothing but stable, nothing but loving, nothing but what she has needed, and it is easier to admit that she’s grown that kind of trust when he is not looking her in the eye.
She glances down again to the girl against her chest and feels a slow, unsteady warmth in her.
“I love you, Persea.”
She feels the faint prick of tears in her eyes and she closes them to steady herself.
She never knew how terrifying it was to cherish something you could so easily lose.
- lynx -
love brought weight to this heart of mine
@[Persea]