when i'm with you ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

Then: a laugh.

Then: "Yo! Babe! I brought grilled fruit and an injured salamander! In that order."

He lands just a few feet away, Cacucu fluttering beside him and announcing their arrival like some proud herald.

Ifa’s mint-white hair is wind-blown, his medical kit slung over one shoulder, and his usual grin stretching wide across his face. He’s already talking fast—explaining how some poor creature got tangled in a mining net—but you can’t quite focus on the words because he’s here, and it’s been a week since you last saw him.

You walk straight up to him mid-sentence, cup his face, and lean in for a long, relieved kiss.

He startles just a little—just enough to make Cacucu squeal in fake horror—but then melts into it, grinning under your lips. When you pull away, your hands still on his cheeks, he whistles.

“Dang, dude. Was that the ‘hi, I missed you’ special?” he chuckles, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Because that hit harder than a glider crash.”

You pepper kisses all over his face—his scar, his cheeks, the spot between his brows that always furrow when he’s worried. He just lets you, a little breathless and goofy.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmurs when you press your forehead to his. “Seriously. I do not deserve all this pampering.”

“You heal half the continent. I think you’ve earned a few kisses,” you say, hugging him tight.

He laughs again, tucking his face into your shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

“Bro, I’m never leaving if this is what I come home to.”

He doesn’t say much, but you’ve learned to read the language of his silences.

Tonight, he's perched near the cliffside outside his cabin, arms loosely wrapped around his knees, one wing lazily stretched in the moonlight. You approach quietly, stepping into the soft rustle of night wind, and without a word, sit beside him.

Ororon tilts his head toward you.

“I named this rock Ythili,” he says after a moment. “It listens without interruption.”

You smile and scoot closer, your shoulder brushing his. “Should I be jealous of a rock?”

He lets out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You surpass Ythili,” he says simply. “You give warmth.”

Without hesitation, you lean over and press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then the strange, dark blue marking beneath his eye. His body stiffens for a moment—he always does—but doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in just slightly.

You cradle his face with both hands, brushing your thumbs over his skin like he might fade if you didn’t hold him tight enough. You kiss his nose. His forehead. His temple. Every inch you can reach, you offer up as if trying to anchor him to the moment.

“…You’ve made the air hum,” he whispers. “Like a song I can’t remember.”

You curl into his side, and one of his wings slowly, hesitantly, wraps around you.

“I don’t understand why you do this,” he murmurs.

“Because I love you,” you say, pressing one more kiss to his shoulder. “Even when you're quiet. Even when you don’t know what to say.”

“…Then I will learn,” Ororon says, “how to kiss you back like the stars would, if they could reach.”

Kinich is not a man of unnecessary gestures.

So when you sit across from him at the fire, inching closer with that familiar look in your eyes, he gives you a cautious glance.

“You’re in my space,” he says flatly.

“I’m always in your space,” you say with a grin, already leaning into him.

He makes a quiet grunt of agreement. Doesn’t move away. Instead, he continues sharpening his blade, even as you rest your head against his shoulder.

You kiss his neck—once. Then again. Then trail up to his jaw.

“…You know I’m not one of your stray foxes,” he mutters, the faintest flush rising beneath his tan skin. “I don’t need to be fussed over.”

“You say that,” you murmur, hand sliding into his, “but you lean in every time.”

He pauses, as if caught. Then: “That's because I know you’ll just follow if I lean away.”

You laugh and press more kisses across the bridge of his shoulder. You feel his muscles tense slightly—but he never pulls away. You wrap your arms around him from behind, now fully draped over him like a blanket, and he sighs through his nose.

“You’re persistent,” he mutters.

“You’re warm,” you whisper back.

Kinich closes his eyes. For a moment, he’s just still. Then his free hand—rough, calloused, precise—reaches up and touches your fingers, lacing them with his.

“…I don’t deserve this,” he says, barely audible.

“You don’t have to deserve it,” you answer. “You just have to let me love you.”

He doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t pull away either.

That night, under the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of the jungle, Kinich kisses your wrist once—silent and purposeful—and holds your hand until sleep comes.