Lost Creek Hollow permiso

you are already, if i say so, a smirk began to toy at the corner of wren's mouth, boyish and giddy and freeing. wren and silvertongue aquilanera. my wife.
mates. wives. it felt so terrifyingly foreign to let the word slip from her tongue in a way that was serious, a way that implied that this was real. for years, a moment such as this was only something wren could find in the depths of her dreams; a woman at her side, a woman who saw in her what she did not see in herself; a woman who looked at the stone of her hardened outer shell and melted it with the sweetness of her touch.
when she blinks, she opens her eyes again to see that very woman staring back at her, the grin that spread across her lips, and she felt herself beginning to choke. yes, wren needed it — needed it more than perhaps she had ever realized.
she says it again beneath her breath and on her tongue is the taste of freedom. not her name. their name.
and now they will be mothers together.