#shiva.

It’s all too easy to slip into this second skin. There’s the way their face relaxes into something softer, shyer. And their hands — charged with a calculated tenderness. Slight numbness spreads down, from the tips of their fingers to the curve of their wrists, when their palms press together, almost a mockery of a prayer. In that absence of feeling rises a quiet heat. Carefully — because it could take just a slight shift, a stab of annoyance or anxiety, to turn that warmth into something scalding — they place their hands on Shiva’s back. Runs warm thumbs under the blades of her shoulders, smoothing tender muscle and veins. “Is this comfortable?” An accent slips out — their real one — the rough-edged, lazy drawl of their hometown. For once, they do little to conceal it, because it just sells the face they’re trying to wear: unassuming, impressionable, wildly out of place. More like a sinner in need of a savior, and less like a flame in need of a moth. “I’m glad,” they say, low and gentle, “that you can trust me with this.”