Nova Peak τ

His chest swells unevenly beneath hers and suddenly she is breathing in the same occluded pattern, “Jeg vidste, at du ikke ville lade mig gå.” Her eyes glaze.
Ayovi tilts his head, drawing him into a kiss. Their lips press and through it she can scent garlands of lilac and bleeding heart, surrounded by color and swathes of light.
Their love could not be coincidence. It was not simply the act of choosing Skorpa over Faust the day of her heat.
What they had survived—
It was holy.
It was clarity.
She may have chosen Faust, but she would have always been Skorpa's.
Ayovi kisses him now, warm and close, as if making up for that moment's pause on the edge of a lifetime in which they had only just met, persistent until her throat has worked itself, swallowing all of which she did not know how to put into words, or what she feared would never stop once started. The huntress tucks herself beneath her husband’s chin, starting pleasantly as one of his claws inadvertently grazes her hip. Her arms reach around his torso to smooth down the width of his back.
“Tror du, de vil opføre sig som dig?” She asks suddenly, unexpected brightness in her voice. “Modig og vittig, med poter for store til elegance?”