Herbalists' Cache supposed to be on stage, but fuck it, i need a minute

in truth, she had expected resistance. expected some bitter, reluctant surrender, but not this. his silence is eerie, heavy like a storm pressing against the horizon. he moves—slow, uncertain, like he is waiting for her to pull away first.

she does not.

she lets him linger there, his breath warm against her forehead, a stark contrast to the cool bite of the water around them. her throat tightens, and she does not know if it is because of him or the sheer exhaustion of it all.

she reaches gingerly, carefully, as though he might recoil if she is not careful. her touch ghosts over his shoulder first, barely there, before she presses firmer to work through the filth, through the blood and whatever else clings to him.

it is an excuse.

a reason to be close without saying what she really means. gods know that was her favorite thing—closeness without reason, physicality without brutality. it is a statement without letting the words fall from her lips, the ones that taste too much like an apology, like an admission of how she has missed him.

"what happened?"