@frostedgrin asked : He lightly brushes his knuckles against her cheek, the tips of his fingers trailing through the curtain of her hair ' ... you always smell so nice. '
ONCE, HER SISTERS had asked her if his hands were as cold as winter. And it was difficult for her to explain to them the difference of having her bark bitten by cold for a hundred years before the protective blanket of frost returned to Narnia, but his hands felt nothing like that. They weren’t warm the same way the sun was, but they were warm the same way love was.
She’d grown to love the feeling of his hands, and their not-cold coldness.
She smiled under his hands, her cheeks nudging up against his knuckles in a way similar to how buds burst through the ground by her feet, always eager to be brushed against her. In that moment, a rush of snowdrops had pushed through the earth to meet her the same as she always felt the need of haste to meet him. Daphne grinned at Jack, plain and delighted.
“Only to those who like the smell of flowers,” she replied. “And I’m glad you do.”
