How good it felt, the sun hot enough to make his coat shiny with sweat, the sand in his teeth. Acton had never been made for the cold.
Neither, of course, had Solterra. Just to see it back to the way it ought to be (painfully bright, each eye he met glittering with challenge) felt like a good omen, like maybe everything could go back to normal. Never mind that normal had once meant war.
All this to say Acton felt more alive than he had in months as he clattered his way across the bazaar, looking for Bexley.
He missed her more than he missed the Crows, more than Reichenbach, more than knowing his place in the underbelly hierarchy of the Night Court. He missed her the way he missed who he used to be, before everything went sideways.
What a relief it was to feel his heart kick back into that battle-drum rhythm the moment he saw her, talking to some poor messenger with a look that could singe a lion. It was a lucky thing whatever business they had concluded by the time Acton arrived at her side; he wasn’t the kind to stand politely by.
Nor was he worried about the stares of others (more likely that he enjoyed them) as he pressed his muzzle to the crook of her neck like he needed to touch her, breathe her in, just to make sure she was real.
“Been a while, Goldilocks,” he said at last between his grin, pulling away only enough to meet the bright glass blue of her eye. “Figured you’d been missing me long enough.”
the moth don't care when he sees the flame
he might get burned, but he's in the game
@
