Whitebark Stream when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the Sun [mtr.]

he speaks, and steps forward. her gaze shutters closed as he places featherlight touch on her brow, there is a warmth that grows to envelop the whole of her. her first heat had been reckless and wanting, this—this is softer. this is desire, and somehow it is entirely different from want, from need. 

"artyom," she murmurs, still as she withdraws. "please, do not be afraid." for she can sense it still, the fear, the panic; hates herself for being the cause. at his worry she only shakes her head, touching his gaze with her own before taking a step near. "you do me no such thing," she promises, soft, but firm. she lapses into stillness; this is his choice, now.