//starter for @musesofconstantchange
It’s a feeling that rolls up the back of her spine—a trilling dance of fingertips that aren’t there; the displacement of air on the edge of a wisping smile like long hair caught in wind; the scent of something other (something undefinable, like the rest of him)—and fingers thoughtlessly curl around the wood rough beneath her palm.
The sun catches the sun off the edge of the faraway mountains, air thin and crisp, cool morning settling in dew around the bright grass and Cat, barefoot, wordlessly turns to face him with a raising eyebrow.
“Bhutan never really seemed like your type.” It’s noted in a hum because it’s been a while, curiosity always getting the better of her. Even now. “Why are you here?”












