The hours passed and very little did Boone stray from Reverie's side as birdsong turned to that of crickets and frogs and the air gnashed with razor teeth. The beach, decidedly, was not the worst place in the world to be.
He'd kept watch over little Blossom when the golden girl disappeared from view, even helped with making her own little shack with twigs and cattail fluff for warmth. But the girl didn't know him, and he wasn't her father — nor would he try to be.
And now as she slept and the mountaineer made an attempt to, Reverie's absence was felt. He wasn't about to be stuck with some other dude's kid if she were to up and run; but even that aside, he wanted company. It'd been too damn long since he talked to someone he didn't have to merely tolerate.
And so he sought her out after assuring little Blossom was sound, trudging through the sand and kicking it up as he walked. He'd found her along the coast, up against the cakey shoreline. Watchin' the waves? he chuffs, voice smokey and laced with the scratch of restlessness. His tongue pokes from between his lips in order to wet them as his eyes traverse the curve of her spine; but some kind of guilt for doing so catches him in his tracks.
What the hell was he doing?

It is.
Boone comes up beside her and eases lazily into a sit with an exhale. The salt in the air was suffocating and clarifying at the same time; foam rolling up close to the tips of his toes and drawing back again. He watches it for a good while in the pale blue of the moon, for he suddenly found himself unable to look to Reverie.
What was he doing here, with her? He could just go. He didn't know her and she didn't know him; there were no obligations, none at all, and yet—
A lump catches in his throat and finally his eyes creep from the slim of her wrist and up her shoulder, to the feathering at her neck.
Was he that desperate?
Was he being desperate, or was he actually drawn to her?
Did it matter?
How's l'il Blossom like the ocean?

The weight of her head against his shoulder startles him into something of a nervous shock and the lump in his throat grows ever larger. She was touching him; touching him, and he swore he could have fainted right then and there.
Intoxicating, it was, to have eyes upon him. Her eyes.
Blossom knows nothing but salt and sea. His breath hitches as he shuffles to accomodate her; fumbling, nervous, and he was sure it radiated off of him. He wasn't used to this. Not in the slightest.
Why'd you leave the valley? he prods, following her whisper with a rumble of his own. Sea callin' your name, or am I about to find out you was doin' somethin' out there you shouldn't've?

A witch?
That's about the weirdest thing I've ever heard, a whistling sound comes from between his teeth. sounds like you had a nutjob on your hands who got into some no-no plants. ah, he'd seen that before.
But then he notices her tears, feels them spill into the fur of his shoulder, and he sputters out a small breath. Hey, hey, you're alright, he snakes one arm out from beneath her to wrap around the small of her back. ain't no witches out here. Promise. and he wanted to apologize, although he wasn't entirely sure what for.
Where the hell had this poor girl been before she ended up here?

What was he to do when a girl he hardly knew was sobbing into his chest?
It's okay, and that's all he could manage in a hushed, raspy whisper as his breath caught helplessly and his eyes sunk. Something had happened, something horrible, something he didn't understand and wouldn't ask about.
His arms slink around her neck in a full embrace, paws rested upon her spine, and it truthfully lacked the intimacy part of him still so desperately sought. This was not the time; he would not be that guy.
You're safe, and it was sincere; whatever she mulled over now was gone, over with, and he wondered if anyone had ever told her such a thing. you're safe.

She felt safe with him. It should've been a compliment, should've given him a feeling of sizzling golden warmth, but instead, it brought him despair.
Who had hurt her so badly to where a damn near stranger was now her source of comfort?
And so he didn't say anything, didn't do anything; not a muscle moved or a breath expelled, little flowery figure still wrapped tight in burly arms, and he felt his lip start to tremble. She could trust him, she could; but the acidic feeling of unspoken guilt now crept into his veins.
He was a man. He was a man, a giant, threatening one; one who knew not his own strength and yet also a weak man, a troubled man. The men before him had not been kind — most weren't, and he knew this, and it riddled him with something bitter and bright red and sickly.
But he was not them.
We should try to sleep, Reverie.

She kisses him and he lets her, and he almost can't believe that he had. It'd been so calm, so tender, so sincere, and yet as soon as he felt the warmth of a gentle mouth against his hardened cheek the lump in his throat grew and his lifeblood surged with something unbecoming. His chest ached with longing of body and brain and heart, a desire that had been shelved so deeply within his mind for many moons.
And he felt shame.
She doesn't fight his call for rest, and for that he finds himself thankful. Get some sleep.
And he would not go far, but he would lay separate from mother and daughter as a figure designated other — he was no father, nor husband. And he would not sleep until the first rays of light found his guarded back, and they would not move forward until the seabirds crowded them and the ocean roared with a wordless frostiness.