Seren Gwyn
White Star
Seren listened to him with the kind of quiet, unwavering attentiveness she reserved only for the rare moments when he truly let his guard down. Her posture remained relaxed, yet her focus was entirely anchored to him, tracking the way he stumbled slightly over his own words as he tried to untangle his deeper meaning from the sounds he actually made. It was a humanizing struggle that drew a soft, genuine smile from her lips. One that arrived before she had the thought to restrain it.
She lifted her goblet, turning it slowly so the dark liquid caught the flickering light of the festival, then glanced back at him with eyes that had grown unmistakably warm.
"The galaxy does not get to decide who you are, Varin," she said gently, her voice a low, steady anchor in the evening air. "It is a vast, unseeing thing that only perceives what you choose to let it see."
As she spoke, her fingers shifted with deliberate grace, brushing lightly against his. It wasn't the accidental contact of two people sharing a space, but a purposeful reaching out, a silent tether.
"And with me," she continued, her voice dropping to a soft, intimate register, "you are gentle. You are thoughtful. You possess a capacity to notice the small, vital things that most people would walk past without a second thought."
At his mention of the "curse," she let out a quiet, breathy laugh that seemed to vibrate with affection, shaking her head faintly as if to dispel the weight of the word.
"I understood exactly what you meant," Seren assured him, her tone far more tender than teasing. "You have a hunger for being present. You prefer sharing a moment to the safety of standing apart from it. That isn't a flaw, and it certainly isn't a curse."
She leaned in just a fraction more, allowing the warmth of her shoulder to brush against his arm, bridging the small distance remaining between them. "It is, in truth, one of the things I have come to like most about you."
When he admitted to his lingering worry, her expression softened into something deeply protective, a flicker of sincere devotion lighting her gaze. "You never have to spend your energy wondering if I feel trapped by you," she said, the words carrying the weight of a vow. "If anything, the opposite is true. You make space for me: a place to simply exist without expectation. You always have."
She lifted her cup to her lips, taking a small sip and wincing just slightly at the sharp, unfamiliar vintage before a small, self-deprecating smile broke through.
"I think the taste is finally growing on me," she admitted softly, her eyes locking onto his with unguarded sincerity. "Though I suspect it is simply because of the association. I find I like most things when they are tied to you."
She let her free hand come to rest lightly over his, where it lay on her leg, her touch grounding and surprisingly warm. "I am truly glad I came tonight. Not for the wine, or the quality of the carving, or even the spectacle of the festival itself."
She gave his hand a faint, reassuring squeeze, her voice barely a murmur. "I am glad because being here with you, exactly like this…it feels right. It feels like a rare thing, and something very much worth keeping."
She raised her goblet once more, a silent salute between just the two of them.
"To us," she murmured.
Varin Mortifer
She lifted her goblet, turning it slowly so the dark liquid caught the flickering light of the festival, then glanced back at him with eyes that had grown unmistakably warm.
"The galaxy does not get to decide who you are, Varin," she said gently, her voice a low, steady anchor in the evening air. "It is a vast, unseeing thing that only perceives what you choose to let it see."
As she spoke, her fingers shifted with deliberate grace, brushing lightly against his. It wasn't the accidental contact of two people sharing a space, but a purposeful reaching out, a silent tether.
"And with me," she continued, her voice dropping to a soft, intimate register, "you are gentle. You are thoughtful. You possess a capacity to notice the small, vital things that most people would walk past without a second thought."
At his mention of the "curse," she let out a quiet, breathy laugh that seemed to vibrate with affection, shaking her head faintly as if to dispel the weight of the word.
"I understood exactly what you meant," Seren assured him, her tone far more tender than teasing. "You have a hunger for being present. You prefer sharing a moment to the safety of standing apart from it. That isn't a flaw, and it certainly isn't a curse."
She leaned in just a fraction more, allowing the warmth of her shoulder to brush against his arm, bridging the small distance remaining between them. "It is, in truth, one of the things I have come to like most about you."
When he admitted to his lingering worry, her expression softened into something deeply protective, a flicker of sincere devotion lighting her gaze. "You never have to spend your energy wondering if I feel trapped by you," she said, the words carrying the weight of a vow. "If anything, the opposite is true. You make space for me: a place to simply exist without expectation. You always have."
She lifted her cup to her lips, taking a small sip and wincing just slightly at the sharp, unfamiliar vintage before a small, self-deprecating smile broke through.
"I think the taste is finally growing on me," she admitted softly, her eyes locking onto his with unguarded sincerity. "Though I suspect it is simply because of the association. I find I like most things when they are tied to you."
She let her free hand come to rest lightly over his, where it lay on her leg, her touch grounding and surprisingly warm. "I am truly glad I came tonight. Not for the wine, or the quality of the carving, or even the spectacle of the festival itself."
She gave his hand a faint, reassuring squeeze, her voice barely a murmur. "I am glad because being here with you, exactly like this…it feels right. It feels like a rare thing, and something very much worth keeping."
She raised her goblet once more, a silent salute between just the two of them.
"To us," she murmured.
Varin Mortifer