romance is the catâs favorite thing, truth be told. it feeds a part of her that she doesnât know how to express beyond the way she grasps blindly at dark hair, how she has to gasp every breath, every molecule of oxygen for her own. starvation is who she is. and she knows only hunger, even here.
for who the bat is â for how buttoned-up, how reserved, how silent, how withdrawn â thereâs an intensity that selina feeds on with great vigor. bryce leans to butt lovingly against her, kittenish, not a bat at all, and the cat basks in it, humming in a low purr that sits reliably in the back of her throat.
that honest little outburst tugs from crimson lips (painted, always, even when itâs only her) another giggle, brightening her up into a million-watt thing. sheâs a north star on the blackest of evenings, twinkling, sparkling. how brown, soft her eyes are. bryce squeezes her and she curls in closer, safe, secure in those arms. she sighs, entirely unrestrained, a comfortable accident.
every moment, every tear, every long night has led to this moment. and sheâs never been so happy about something. to have been patient, loving, kind to someone who deserves it, to someone who can make mistakes and be given the grace of them. she deserves it. selina deems it so because sheâs always decided this. fearlessly. she looks at the worst of someone and chooses instead to see the best.
ask holly anytime, selinaâs gift for making an entire meal out of mere crumbs has been a talent sheâs cultivated with slow and patient affection. itâs a double-edged sword, no mistake madeâ she doesnât believe sheâs worth more, but bryce does, and for once she has something here. for once, she feels like sheâs loved to some kind of life. she can be someone.
âyouâve always deserved them. getting to be her mom. you always care. i know that. i see you even when you canât.â
bryce is more whole to her sometimes than she can be to herself. selina sees the tenderness in her eyes thatâs kept almost entirely to her, to holls.
she sighs when she sees the bath, wonderfully scented and warm and waiting like the bed that invites them not too far at all. mostly because she cannot win with alfred, who she still cannot call alfred, and though he sighs about it, he also heavily places a hand at her shoulder with eternal sympathy. he also doesnât dig into her about it, doesnât insist she familiarize herself. itâs a politeness thing. which is wild, wild about her. sheâs painfully irreverent about everything else.
she watches the bat remove layers and layers, perching herself on the edge of the bath. and isnât her expression just eager and waiting, arenât those eyes enormous, round, gazing and gazing. isnât there nothing but the blatant promise of love on her face.
she tugs her own sweater over her head, only halfway self-conscious about the concept. sheâs not one for shyness, but thereâs a way her shoulders slant in, a way sheâs so much smaller sometimes, exposed. peels out of black joggers and underwear next, the palest creature who has ever lived, all scars and porcelain bits. those little purple spots color her skin here and there â her side, her hip, her upper thighs in faint dots. a self-imposed need to feel something, anything. a tendency.
âthatâs all i want. it just makes me feel â like it matters. i just want to feelâ real. it makes me feel⌠real. like i get to matter, too.â
and maybe thatâs embarrassing to say. to feel. but she blinks, that gaze so soft, so off-guard.
âall that matters is you let me know. however. i get it.â