It’s a full moon, on a clear night, in a place with very little light pollution. Of course Aria wants to share it.
There’s coercing involved. It’ll be quick, she says. It’s safe, she says. She won’t grow the tree to Eiffel Tower heights and jump, she says. Eventually, Davis says yes.
Eyes closed, she says. The tree that would be their balcony shifts and bends to accommodate them, and Aria takes his hand to walk him onto a sturdy weave of branches. Slowly, the tree straightens, taking the pair above the canopy of winter leaves.
She squeezes the hand still in hers. Go ahead, she says. It’s a private show of the sky’s allure, the moon and stars painted on a navy landscape, painting the ground, the trees, and their observers in soft light.
He spends the rest of the night looking up. Beautiful, he says.
She spends the rest of the night looking over. You are, she says.
