Fallen Lights: Riding POVs Book I

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<<nobr>> <<if $egender is "female">> <<set $emilname to "Emilia">> <<set $emil_malefemale to "female">> <<set $emil_manwoman to "woman">> <<set $emil_menwomen to "women">> <<set $emil_boygirl to "girl">> <<set $emil_sondaughter to "daughter">> <<set $emil_capsondaughter to "Daughter">> <<set $emil_brothersister to "sister">> <<set $emil_husbandwife to "wife">> <<set $emil_heshe to "she">> <<set $emil_hisher to "her">> <<set $emil_hishers to "hers">> <<set $emil_himher to "her">> <<set $emil_lordlady to "lady">> <<set $emil_capheshe to "She">> <<set $emil_caphisher to "Her">> <<set $emil_caphimher to "Her">> <<set $emil_himherself to "herself">> <<set $emil_hesshes to "she's">> <<else>> <<set $emilname to "Emil">> <<set $emil_malefemale to "male">> <<set $emil_manwoman to "man">> <<set $emil_menwomen to "men">> <<set $emil_boygirl to "boy">> <<set $emil_sondaughter to "son">> <<set $emil_capsondaughter to "Son">> <<set $emil_brothersister to "brother">> <<set $emil_husbandwife to "husband">> <<set $emil_heshe to "he">> <<set $emil_hisher to "his">> <<set $emil_hishers to "his">> <<set $emil_himher to "him">> <<set $emil_lordlady to "lord">> <<set $emil_capheshe to "He">> <<set $emil_caphisher to "His">> <<set $emil_caphimher to "Him">> <<set $emil_himherself to "himself">> <<set $emil_hesshes to "he's">> <</if>> Who do you want to ride with? <div class="choice">[[Florian's POV]]</div> <<if $egender is "female">> <div class="choice">[[Emilia's POV]]</div> <<else>> <div class="choice">[[Emil's POV]]</div> <</if>> <div class="choice">[[Marcella's POV]]</div> <</nobr>> by Dakota Smith<span class="foo">$gamechapter</span> Fallen Lights: Riding POVs Book 1<<set $gamechapter = "">> <<set $name to "">> <<set $horsegender to "">> <<set $horsecoat to "">> <<set $horsename to "">><<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter = "Florian Vasil">> <div class="centered-image"> [img[images/florriding.png]] </div> <br> <</nobr>>“Can I ride with you?” Florian blinks, his heart stuttering. He really should’ve expected this; the two of you have been dancing around each other for weeks now. All those barest brushes of skin that make him burn, the looks he gave you and the ones he received in turn. He gives you a smile, hoping you can’t read exactly how nervous he is. “You don’t even need to ask.” You smile back at his words, a little tilt of your lips that makes his pulse hammer in an all too familiar way. He isn’t fool enough to claim his feelings are a recent development, after all. Since he was a child, and he discovered he’d need an advisor, he thought only of you. Then, later on, when he learned he would eventually marry and take a consort…well, it wasn’t a contest. He couldn’t picture anyone else beside him. “And I’ll be riding alone,” $emilname announces firmly, interrupting Florian’s thoughts quite thoroughly. He watches as $emilname turns to $emil_hisher own saddle, quietly simmering at $emil_hisher stubbornness. Perhaps the future $emil_lordlady of the Renaud family had a leg to stand on when being cocky about magic. Healing, though? Florian knew with certainty that $emilname was just as clueless as he was on that front. So why balk a healer’s suggestions, or rather orders in Ari’s case, so resolutely? It was foolish. Ari mutters something about insufferable nobility, and Florian is inclined to agree despite falling into that category himself. $emilname ignores everyone’s gaze resolutely and drags $emil_himherself up onto $emil_hisher saddle. $emil_capheshe gets situated, shifting with a wince, but he can tell $emil_heshe would rather die than admit any pain or discomfort. Florian rolls his eyes, stifling his annoyance as he mounts Cyris. He looks down as you approach, his face softening as he offers you a hand. Your hand is warm in his as he leans down to help pull you up, watching as you throw a leg over his horse with expert ease. You needed no assistance in getting up onto the saddle, he’s well aware of this. [[You were, in all actuality, probably riding far before him if Ezrah had anything to say about it.|florian pg 2]]<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter = "Marcella Dumont">> <div class="centered-image"> [img[images/marcellariding.png]] </div> <br> <</nobr>>“Can I ride with you?” Marcella grins widely, having already expected that. With all the longing and pining she’s been doing on her end, she would hope it’s at least a little bit reciprocated. "As if you even need to ask, silly." She responds, not even bothering to hide her excitement. She bounces on the balls of her heels as she moves forward to grab you by the hand, ready to haul you off to where Gail waits. “And I’ll be riding alone,” $emilname announces firmly, making Marcella pause. She watches, keeping one eye on you and one eye on the Renaud heir, as $emilname turns to $emil_hisher own saddle. She laments $emil_hisher stubbornness, but the unfortunate reality is that she’s used to it. No matter the subject, or what suggestions $emil_heshe is given, $emilname maintains that $emil_heshe knows best. When it comes to conjuring? Yeah, she could bite on that one. Healing, though? Not a chance. Despite being a mage, $emilname is just as clueless as Marcella on that. It’s why she wishes the stubborn ass would listen to Ari, but that’s far too much cooperation to hope for. Ari mutters something about insufferable nobility, and Marcella can guess Florian agrees from the look on his face. $emilname ignores everyone’s gaze resolutely and drags $emil_himherself up onto $emil_hisher saddle. $emil_capheshe gets situated, shifting with a wince, but Marcella can tell $emil_heshe would rather die than admit any pain or discomfort. Turning her full attention to you, she offers the empty saddle with a flourishing bow. You mount the horse with practiced ease, and she lets you settle for a moment before hopping up herself. She takes the place in front, passing Gail’s reins into your hands. "She loves you," She says as you adjust your grip, "So it won't be a problem. Besides, she hasn’t been a handful yet, even with all the distance we’ve covered.” She feels you chuckle slightly, "Have you been taking notes?" Tipping her head back, she looks at you with a smirk, "I was, for the report when we got back. I stopped yesterday. Figured I wouldn't give your brother a stroke." Your eyes widen in alarm at her words, "Now that you mention it, please don't." She does laugh then, outright and loud as she settles to rest her back on your chest. You're warm and comfortable, and the thought of getting a free ride without having to worry about directions is a nice break. "Comfortable there?" You ask, guiding Gail to follow the rest of the party as everyone begins moving. Marcella shoots a glance beside you as $emilname passes. If that idiot falls off $emil_hisher horse, she’ll never forgive $emil_himher. Forcing herself to relax, she burrows deeper into your chest. "Oh, you know it." [[You squeeze her slightly in an awkward mimicry of a hug, but it still sets off every butterfly in her stomach.|next marcella]]<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter = "POV Selection">> <div class="centered-image"> [img[images/flridingbook1.png]] </div> <br> <</nobr>> [[Continue to game configuration.|Game Config]] Your horse is a larger Andalusian <<cycle "$horsegender" autoselect>> <<option "stallion">> <<option "mare">> <</cycle>> with a <<cycle "$horsecoat" autoselect>> <<option "chestnut">> <<option "black">> <<option "gray">> <<option "white">> <<option "dark brown">> <<option "gray spotted">> <<option "brown spotted">> <<option "black spotted">> <</cycle>> coat. Your horse's name is... <<textbox "$horsename" "" "after horse name">> [[Continue...|after horse name]] What is your name? <<textbox "$name" "" "after name">> [[Continue...|after name]]<div class="choice">[[Emilia Renaud is female.|Title Page][$egender to "female"]]</div>\ <div class="choice">[[Emil Renaud is male.|Title Page][$egender to "male"]]</div>\<<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter = "Emilia Renuad">> <div class="centered-image"> [img[images/emiliariding.png]] </div> <br> <</nobr>>“I could ride with you,” You offer, looking straight at Emilia with those damned eyes of yours, “If you don’t mind.” She can feel her breathing stutter, her eyes widen, the way her anger turns into shock. She fiddles with her sleeves for a moment, an old habit that would have her mother striking her swiftly, before nodding tightly. ​ Ari sighs, “It’ll do, I suppose.” She shoots her a venomous glare as everyone disburses to their own mount. No matter what the priestess thinks, Emilia is perfectly capable of riding alone. She's done more with worse, so what does this really matter in the grand scheme of things? Another scar, another nightmare to haunt her every sleeping moment, more ghosts to loom at the very edge of her vision. Nothing new. She turns sharply to her saddle, jaw tight, preparing for the wrenching pain of hauling herself up. She sees you join her in her peripheral vision, sees the hand you offer so easily. After all the times she's slapped it away, you’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. Apparently not. A rough sigh tears itself out of her as she accepts your hand. Were it anyone else grabbing her knee and ankle like this, he’d probably kick them. It’s you, though, so she leverages the assistance and bounces on her other foot while she grabs the reins. She drags herself into the saddle, wincing only slightly as she shifts to get as comfortable as possible. She knows you notice when her breathing grows heavy from the pain; she sees the way your eyes sharpen, the way your lips turn downward. ​ “Where do you want me to sit?” You ask quietly, looking up at him. She looks at you for a long moment before speaking quietly, “Behind me. If I fall-“ “I’ll catch you,” You interrupt her with a grin. Damn him, but she doesn’t doubt you for a second. You pull yourself up with ease, your arm brushing her briefly as you reach around her to grab the reins. Despite the thick layers of clothing, she still feels the heat of shame burn where you touch. She shouldn’t want this, can not want this- [[You draw her closer until she's leaning against your chest, her back pressed against your sturdy frame.|pull fem e closer]] <<nobr>> <<set $gamechapter = "Emil Renuad">> <div class="centered-image"> [img[images/emilriding.png]] </div> <br> <</nobr>>“I could ride with you,” You offer, looking straight at Emil with those damned eyes of yours, “If you don’t mind.” He can feel his breathing stutter, his eyes widen, the way his anger turns into shock. He fiddles with his sleeves for a moment, an old habit that would have his mother striking him swiftly, before nodding tightly. Ari sighs, “It’ll do, I suppose.” He shoots her a venomous glare as everyone disburses to their own mount. No matter what the priestess thinks, Emil is perfectly capable of riding alone. He’s done more with worse, so what does this really matter in the grand scheme of things? Another scar, another nightmare to haunt his every sleeping moment, more ghosts to loom at the very edge of his vision. Nothing new. He turns sharply to his saddle, jaw tight, preparing for the wrenching pain of hauling himself up. He sees you join him in his peripheral vision, sees the hand you offer so easily. After all the times he’s slapped it away, you’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. Apparently not. A rough sigh tears itself out of him as he accepts your hand. Were it anyone else grabbing his knee and ankle like this, he’d probably kick them. It’s you, though, so he leverages the assistance and bounces on his other foot while he grabs the reins. He drags himself into the saddle, wincing only slightly as he shifts to get as comfortable as possible. He knows you notice when his breathing grows heavy from the pain; he sees the way your eyes sharpen, the way your lips turn downward. “Where do you want me to sit?” You ask quietly, looking up at him. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking quietly, “Behind me. If I fall-“ “I’ll catch you,” You interrupt him with a grin. Damn him, but he doesn’t doubt you for a second. You pull yourself up with ease, your arm brushing his briefly as you reach around him to grab the reins. Despite the thick layers of clothing, he still feels the heat of shame burn where you touch. He shouldn’t want this, can not want this- [[You draw him closer until he’s leaning against your chest, his back pressed against your sturdy frame.|pull e closer]] You settle in front of him, and he wraps his arms around you as he reaches to grab the reins. “Nothing against $horsename, of course, but I’m not going to complain about sharing.” He says, his lips twitching upward as he feels you huff a laugh, your body shaking against his, “Though my horse might have some complaints after a while.” “Cyris won’t have to suffer my weight for very long,” You say, amusement thick in your voice, “So enjoy it while you can.” He will most certainly be recalling this moment for some time, at the very least. The feeling of your back pressed against him, how he can feel every breath you take reverberating in his own chest. Yes, this will be something that haunts his dreams, he doesn’t doubt that for a second. “Oh, I will be,” He says playfully, wondering if you realize how truthful the words truly are. You’re both quiet for a moment as your party starts moving once again. Florian watches $emilname from the corner of his eye, praying to whatever God listens that $emil_heshe doesn’t fall off her saddle. “Are you nervous?” The words draw his full attention easily back to you, and he already knows what you’re really asking. Does he fear returning to his father’s birthplace when the entire Sidorov line shunned the Ebian King Consort and, by extension, his son? The answer comes quickly and is a resounding yes. Even if he doesn’t reveal himself, would they recognize him? Should he meet his paternal grandparents without realizing, would they see their son in Florian? Would they be disgusted by it? He wouldn’t tell anyone that. His fears, his insecurity when it comes to his father and the family he’s never met; they’re things that could be used against him, after all. He was raised in court; he knows very well how this cloak and dagger nonsense goes. You aren’t anyone though. So he says, “I’m terrified, actually.” <div class="choice">[[“I understand.” You say softly, “I never knew my father, but the idea of having relatives out there you don’t even know…”|understanding]]</div>\ <div class="choice">[[You say nothing for a long moment, instead leaning back against his chest. He tucks his arms closer to you, a mimicry of a hug, and he knows you get it.|quiet understanding]]</div>\“They would love you,” He responds easily. You scoff quietly, “And how would you know?” “It’s you.” He shrugs, “They’d be stupid if they didn’t.” You’re quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment. “There’s a lot of stupid people out there.” You mutter. Your mother chiefly among them, he thinks, biting his cheek as he realizes his misstep. He’s loathed the woman since he knew of her existence. She deserves it, he knows that truth like he knows the sun rises with the morning. “Well, I’ll just have to be wise enough for all of them, won’t I?” He quips, comforted by the way you relax back in his arms. Some might chalk it up to his youth, or perhaps childhood infatuation, but he’s yet to falter in the decision he made as a boy. He was correct back then when he realized there was no choice, no crowd of options to choose from. There was only you. There is only you. [[He’s perfectly fine with keeping it that way. In fact, he doesn’t think he could change his own mind even if he wanted to.|Title]] He thinks, privately, about your father. The unnamed man that has haunted your entire life. He wonders if your undiscovered family would love you as you deserved, and he thinks that they surely must. They’d be stupid if they didn’t. Then he thinks of your mother, of the recent interaction you had with her in Clearwater, and remembers just how many idiots there are in the world. Truth be told, he’s loathed the woman since he knew of her existence. She deserves it, he knows that truth like he knows the sun rises with the morning. “I don’t say it often enough,” Florian mutters, “But I’m lucky to have met you.” He feels you stiffen and gives you a slight squeeze as Cyris navigates along the snowy trail. You relax back in his arms, ducking your head slightly. He can’t see your face, but he wonders if you wear your embarrassment as clearly there as you do your body language. Some might chalk it up to his youth, or perhaps childhood infatuation, but he’s yet to falter in the decision he made as a boy. He was correct back then when he realized there was no choice, no crowd of options to choose from. There was only you. There is only you. He’s perfectly fine with keeping it that way. In fact, he doesn’t think he could change his own mind even if he wanted to. He can’t want this, but he burns so terribly for any scrap of affection you’ll throw his way. He stiffens at first, unused to a kind touch that overwhelms him so thoroughly, but he slowly relaxes into the warmth that chases away the chill hounding his tracks. Staring down at his hands, ever curled into defiant fists that rest in his lap, his eyes trail over the ruined skin. He reminds himself distantly that he cannot allow you to make him feel intact. There is no divine grace, be it your smile or the word of the Goddess herself, that can fix what’s been broken inside him. He is not Emil, he hasn’t been for a long time. He is the Heir of the Renaud Family. He is the ace up his parent’s sleeves. He is his mother’s creature, scraped together in the crypts and the courts. He cannot be yours, can never be yours, when he doesn't even belong to himself. Still, the words escape his tongue. “Thank you.” “Yeah,” You breathe out, so close he can feel it against his neck, “Yeah, of course.” He feels heavy, heavier than he ever has. Like he could just sink back into your embrace and forget about everything. Here, where there are no watchful eyes, where no one can witness his failure. You say nothing else as the party begins moving, guiding his horse with a familiarity that comes from experience. You’d probably been riding far longer than he had; horses had frightened him as a child, so much so that it had required more than one lashing to get him in the saddle. The High General had likely taught you to ride soon after you learned to walk. “These are painted like the ones you gave me,” He hears you mumble, so quiet he’s not sure if he was meant to hear it. His gaze trails down to the reins in your hand, small flowers the color of your eyes decorating the fine leather. He’s glad you can’t quite see his mortification from where you reside behind him, though he fears it might be radiating off him like an aura. “Vivi decorates them,” He rushes the words out rapidfire, pinning the blame solely on his youngest sister. “Vivi,” He hears the doubt in your voice, “Your six year old sister?” “Yes.” He says nothing else, preferring to pluck his own teeth out one by one than admit your eyes have always been his favorite color. Since you were both children and he would sit for hours, painting your likeness in the library while he pretended to be studying. “Alright,” You say, though he can tell you don’t quite believe him. [[It’s quiet for a moment before an amused little laugh escapes you.|close vivi comment]] He’s definitely not pouting when he asks, “What’s so funny?” “It’s cute,” You say, amusement thick in your voice, “That you call her Vivi. I’ve only ever heard her called Lady Vivienne Renaud; it’s a bit formal for someone who doesn’t even come up to our waists.” “I-” He starts before stopping just as quickly, grasping for words. None of them answer the call. How does he explain that his sister hates her name because of the way his parents bark it? How does he tell you that he spends most evenings rocking her in his lap until she stops crying and finally falls asleep? How does he admit he couldn’t save her, just like he couldn’t save Elinor, Violette, Clara, or Helene? Five failures, five reasons he can’t look in the mirror. “You don’t have to explain a nickname to me,” Your voice sounds exasperatingly fond, “Have you met my brother?” Ah, right. A stark reminder that nicknames are normal. That family loving each other is normal. That his parents discouraging their closeness is what’s odd in this scenario. “Right,” He clears his throat. You move to hold the reins with one hand, reaching down to squeeze his own in your gentle grasp. He feels you pause when you curl your fingers around his fist; bile rises in his throat at your skin, unblemished save for calluses, touching the wreck that’s been made of him. You don’t falter, though, and he feels your cold nose press against him as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Eyes on the reins,” He says, voice tight and strained. “Of course,” You whisper, and he can hear the affection in your voice. [[It scalds him, but he savors it all the same.|Title]] She can’t want this, but she burns so terribly for any scrap of affection you’ll throw her way. She stiffens at first, unused to a kind touch that overwhelms her so thoroughly, but she slowly relaxes into the warmth that chases away the chill hounding her tracks. Staring down at her hands, ever curled into defiant fists that rest in her lap, her eyes trail over the ruined skin. She reminds herself distantly that she cannot allow you to make her feel intact. There is no divine grace, be it your smile or the word of the Goddessherself, that can fix what’s been broken inside him. She is not Emilia, she hasn’t been for a long time. She is the Heir of the Renaud Family. She is the ace up her parent’s sleeves. She is her mother’s creature, scraped together in the crypts and the courts. She cannot be yours, can never be yours, when she doesn't even belong to herself. Still, the words escape her tongue. “Thank you.” “Yeah,” You breathe out, so close she can feel it against her neck, “Yeah, of course.” She feels heavy, heavier than she ever has. Like she could just sink back into your embrace and forget about everything. Here, where there are no watchful eyes, where no one can witness her failure. You say nothing else as the party begins moving, guiding her horse with a familiarity that comes from experience. You’d probably been riding far longer than she had; horses had frightened her as a child, so much so that it had required more than one lashing to get her in the saddle. The High General had likely taught you to ride soon after you learned to walk. “These are painted like the ones you gave me,” She hears you mumble, so quiet she's not sure if she was meant to hear it. His gaze trails down to the reins in your hand, small flowers the color of your eyes decorating the fine leather. She's glad you can’t quite see her mortification from where you reside behind him, though she fears it might be radiating off her like an aura. “Vivi decorates them,” She rushes the words out rapidfire, pinning the blame solely on her youngest sister. “Vivi,” She hears the doubt in your voice, “Your six year old sister?” “Yes.” She says nothing else, preferring to pluck her own teeth out one by one than admit your eyes have always been her favorite color. Since you were both children and she would sit for hours, painting your likeness in the library while she pretended to be studying. “Alright,” You say, though she can tell you don’t quite believe him. [[It’s quiet for a moment before an amused little laugh escapes you.|close vivi comment fem]] She's definitely not pouting when she asks, “What’s so funny?” “It’s cute,” You say, amusement thick in your voice, “That you call her Vivi. I’ve only ever heard her called Lady Vivienne Renaud; it’s a bit formal for someone who doesn’t even come up to our waists.” “I-” She starts before stopping just as quickly, grasping for words. None of them answer the call. How does she explain that her sister hates her name because of the way her parents bark it? How does she tell you that she spends most evenings rocking her in her lap until she stops crying and finally falls asleep? How does she admit she couldn’t save her, just like she couldn’t save Elinor, Violette, Clara, or Helene? Five failures, five reasons she can’t look in the mirror. “You don’t have to explain a nickname to me,” Your voice sounds exasperatingly fond, “Have you met my brother?” Ah, right. A stark reminder that nicknames are normal. That family loving each other is normal. That her parents discouraging their daughters closeness is what’s odd in this scenario. “Right,” She clears her throat. You move to hold the reins with one hand, reaching down to squeeze her own in your gentle grasp. She feels you pause when you curl your fingers around her fist; bile rises in her throat at your skin, unblemished save for calluses, touching the wreck that’s been made of him. You don’t falter, though, and she feels your cold nose press against her as you bury your face in the crook of her neck. “Eyes on the reins,” She says, voice tight and strained. “Of course,” You whisper, and she can hear the affection in your voice. [[It scalds her, but she savors it all the same.|Title]] Her head rolls off to the side, still cushioned in your warmth as she watches the snow covered scenery go by. “Have you ever been up north?” You inquire suddenly. You’re watching her closely when she glances up, your eyes fond. “Once,” She gives you a small smile, “My family actually went to Myrine for a festival when I was very young. A vacation thing for us, though my father was there to close a deal.” “Bit different from Ovreil?” You raise an eyebrow. She scoffs, “You’ve never been to Ovreil if you’re even asking me that.” “Coincidentally, you’d be correct.” You say drolly. “A peninsula with beaches on every coast,” She says grandly, “White sand, and the largest ports you’ll ever see. Bigger than Kesdon’s even.” “Do you ever miss it?” The question makes her falter. She bites her bottom lip, toying with it between her teeth, “I miss the place…and who my sister used to be. Not much else to look back on longingly.” “What, absent parents not a fond memory of yours?” You quip. It startles a laugh out of her before she realizes what you said, and then the laugh turns to a cackle. It’s infectious, and soon you’re both trying to smother your amusement as Gail trots along behind everyone else, leading $horsename down the trail behind you. “You’re horrible,” She says affectionately. She feels you shrug, “You like it.” “You’re also not wrong.” There’s a comfortable silence before you continue, “Do you remember much from when you visited up here?” “Besides getting to drop a handful of snow down my sister’s jacket?” She makes an iffy motion with her hand, “Not really. I think the hot beverage I drank was good, but I’m not sure if it was warm cider or hot chocolate.” “That really doesn’t narrow it down.” You snicker. “Tell me about it.” She says, before asking, “Have you ever been outside Kesdon?” “I went straight from Clearwater to the capital,” You explain, “Even if we had the time, Ezrah wasn’t exactly rich on a guard’s salary back then.” “Now there’s definitely no time,” She points out, a little saddened by the fact. She wishes Ezrah had the luxury of seeing the world without leading his kingdom to war. She wishes you were able to have adventures without the queen’s instructions looming over you. She wishes bandits didn’t exist and people could just be kind and the world could stop being so awful. Practically, though, Marcella has never been much of a dreamer. She knows none of that will ever happen. So, she’ll work with what she has. Right now that’s you, Florian, and $emilname. Ari and Dimitri are included in that, too, she supposes. She’ll keep you safe, she swears to herself. [[Once was a mistake; a second slip up would be an insult to her honor that she couldn’t afford.|Marcella pg 3]] Besides, how could she go home and face Ezrah if something happened to you? No, she’d die first. There’s no world in which Ezrah recovers from that. He’s been your big brother so long that Marcella isn’t sure how he’d cope; it’s who he is. He’s the older brother of $name Rhys, the High General title coming second place always. That and…she wouldn’t recover, either. How could she? She’s known you just as long as she has her family of birth; a found home in return for the one she abandoned. Somewhere she belongs, somewhere she’s safe. You’re a part of that, one of the puzzle pieces that’s made her what she is today. She loves that puzzle, now. Maybe she loves you. “We can always make time,” You counter softly. Your eyes are still on the path ahead, but she can hear the promise behind the words. She swallows hard. Hopefully you can’t spot the deep flush that paints her cheekbones in the shadows the forest canopy above provides. [[Yeah, maybe she loves you.|Title]]