[ Something slips loose, smile melting into the space between them — Maker, there is so much space between them — the fence she'd swung upon improbably steady. A few feet of wood posts might make the Imperial Highway. Gazing between freckle, mole, freckle; he confesses, ]

Thank god. Needed to say that for weeks.

[ Stubby nails lift to the space where jaw meets throat, tucking a black strand behind ear. ]

Everyone oughta tell you all the time. Just shines out of you. Maybe that’s cheap, [ His hand pulls free, palm coming to rest between the crest of her shoulders. ] But it’s true.