Love.

It’s a difficult subject; so simple on the surface, yet so complex underneath, and then, somehow, simple again. And on and on it goes, switching back and forth, never making up its mind as to which end of the spectrum it prefers.

I love my family. This is simple.

I love my friends. This too is simple.

I love him…

This used to be simple. Now the word has another meaning, and it’s one I’ve been perfectly happy, and sometimes glad to wave off dismissively — not because I thought I never would’ve had a chance, but because I simply had no desire. Once upon a time, yes — almost every colt or filly goes through that stage — but when I joined the reserves, I found my lot in life. Nothing could’ve convinced me I needed, or would ever want anything more than that.

And then he showed up. One thing led to another, and now… here we are, seated in a booth in a trusted bar in the capital of the Crystal Empire, coming down from another birthday performance for Princess Flurry Heart. Spitfire and Soarin are sitting with us, the other Wonderbolts mingle about the establishment, and Brave, Phalanx and Ironside mingle with them. I try to focus on the conversation, but I keep drifting in and out with my thoughts.

We started the night off with a friendly introduction, took our seats, ordered our drinks and a basket of seasoned fries to share — apple juice for him, as always — and everything’s gone well. Music plays from speakers in all corners of the bar, and the chatter matches it in volume. He’s making friends, we’re all having a good time. This is fine.

I am in control.

“You okay there, Fleet?”

I stop the slow twisting of my glass of cider on the polished wood tabletop and turn my attention to Spitfire, diagonally opposite me in terms of seating. She wears her bomber jacket, but no cap or shades this time. Her expression is curious, not concerned, so I figure she hasn’t picked up on anything just yet. Best it stay that way.

“Yeah,” I reply coolly, then bring my hoof and the glass up to my lips to take a sip. “Just wondering why Philip here isn’t privy to a little liquor once in a while.”

“Excuse me,” he scoffs, patting the table as he leans against the cushioned backrest. “Since when were we in the business of shaming others for their drinking habits?”

“Yeah, cut the guy some slack, Fleet,” Soarin brays, slapping me on the back with a wing a little harder than he probably meant. “Let him be a wuss if he wants.”

“Oh, a wuss, am I? I’ll have you know I watched both Mortal Kombat movies start to finish without cringing once.”

“Is that so?” He nods in mock fascination. “Well then, I might be impressed if I knew what you’re talking about.”

Philip smirks and shakes his head. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t,” he says, reaching over and snatching a chip, dipping it in a small bowl of sweet chilli before popping it in his mouth. “The nineties were a weird time, in some respects.”

“What decade isn’t?” Spitfire chuckles. “Believe it or not, Equestria’s gone through some phases of its own. Once upon a time, Starswirl the Bearded was considered an obscure historical figure, and Nightmare Moon was thought to be a myth by most people.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Most?”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, everyone. But what do you expect? Striking Luna from the history books and neglecting to mention her for a thousand years tends to make things seem… well, mythic. You can’t deny Equestria’s never been the best when it comes to keeping stuff recorded.”

“I’ll say.” Philip washes down the lone fry with a sip from his glass. “All the history books I read in the palace were either half complete or frustratingly brief, sometimes both. And this was Celestia’s personal archive.”

“Or what she let you read of it, at any rate.”

“True.” Another sip. “She probably hoards the darker stuff for herself.”

Spitfire snorts. “What, you’re fascinated by the prospect of people waging war and stabbing each other in the back?”

He shrugs. “It makes for good TV.”

Soarin baulks. “You watch that sort of thing for sport?”

“Hey, don’t act like you’re innocent. If stories have no conflict, they’re flat and boring. And sometimes, we want those stories to reflect real life events. You can’t shame me for liking what I like if I’m not hurting anybody.”

I peer down at the golden liquid in my glass.

If only it were so simple.

“Fine,” Soarin concedes, lifting a hoof in a small, dismissive wave, “I won’t kink-shame. Still, it’s interesting, don’t you think? The differences and similarities between our likes and dislikes. You know, you coming from another dimension and all.”

“Oh, yeah, Fleety and I have gone over that topic extensively. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a million times, but I never imagined I’d be breaking bread with creatures like you. Or… should I say people?”

“Both are acceptable, but it’s more progressive to say ‘people’,” Spitfire informs with an encouraging smile. “Got to keep our image up to date, after all. And if it’s all the same, I don’t think any of us imagined we’d be sharing a drink with the likes of you either.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles to himself, and then turns his smile on me. “And we all know who to thank for that, don’t we?”

A lead weight drops in my chest, and it takes all my strength to keep it from showing — from letting my ears pin back or my wings tense up or my eyes to shift focus. I know he doesn’t know, and neither does anypony else, so all I can pin this down to is tragic irony and the will of whatever spirits that wish to mock me. I can’t bring myself to smile back, so instead, I watch him blankly and hope I come off as unsure on how to react.

It apparently works, because the next thing he does is raise his glass and beam a thankful grin. “A toast for my hero.”

Okay, now the universe is just plain torturing me.

“Hear-hear,” Soarin agrees, raising his own.

Spitfire does the same, but keeps her eyes on me, perhaps expectantly.

I suppose I shouldn’t disappoint, lest I rouse suspicion, so with a reluctant sigh that I hope sounds begrudging, I scoop up my glass and hold it aloft with the others. And there it hangs for a few moments while Philip does one of his exaggerated pouts as he thinks of the words. Despite his features being less… pronounced than a pony’s — especially the eyes — I’ve always liked how expressive he can be when he really lets himself relax.

I think there’s something endearing in the contrast.

“To friends newfound,” he finally announces, casting another smile to Soarin and Spitfire, before his gaze returns to me, “and whatever mistakes we’ll be making along the way.”

The lead weight morphs into a sack of bricks, and before I let it show, I clink my glass against theirs and tilt my head back as I guzzle the cider in a lengthy swig. The others do the same, and while they're distracted with their respective drinks, I seize the opportunity to wiggle out the tension in my wings and body. “Good,” I say for added protection, then clear my throat as if the stuff had actually burned going down. “That was good.”

“Mm, indeed.” Soarin nods as he replaces his cup on the table. “But before we completely move away from likes and dislikes, I have to wonder… what did you think of your first live Wonderbolts performance? Was it worth coming all the way up from Fillydelphia?”

“Of course!” Philip exclaims, replacing his glass as well. “Granted, you don’t see everything from the best angles in person, but… there’s something about being there that just…”

“You can’t describe?” Spitfire offers as she steals a chip.

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds about right.” He nods. “Hackneyed, but accurate. You don’t remember the rush of wind, for instance, or get to experience your popcorn spilling when Rainbow does a fly-by. Oh, and by the way, I loved that ballet-like segment in the middle.”

“That was Fleet’s idea,” Soarin answers, smirking at me and nudging my side. “Got a little inspired for this show, I think.”

Damn it, I’m in the spotlight once more, and his pause and expectant look tell me I’m supposed to elaborate. I clear my throat again and hope the alcohol kicks in at some point… though now that I think about it, perhaps I shouldn’t be drinking — it loosens the tongue and makes one more impulsive. Less careful. More liberal in their choice of words.

But silence won’t do either.

“Having a few months’ heads up helped a bit.”

“Where was that inspiration on the world tours?”

I glance at him, but his expression remains innocent, and not in the forced ‘whatever could I possibly mean’ kind of way. Which is good. So, I shrug. “Caught on churning out routines, I guess.”

“That’s it?”

I turn my head to him again and squint, tucking the closest wing tighter against my side. “What do you want me to say, that I’ve found my muse?”

“Well, have you?”

I hesitate. I’m sure the answer is no, because I doubt creativity is ever so simple — how can having somepony in mind motivate somepony else to paint a picture, or in my case, choreograph a show? If anything, wouldn’t that just be a distraction? That’s what I figured relationships are in this line of business, and while it wasn’t the sole reason I’ve denied myself the opportunity all this time, there’s no denying it was a big factor.

I look at Philip.

He looks back.

I force a smirk, and the small amount of bravery I’m showing puts a warmth in my chest. Surely he couldn’t believe what we’re all hearing either. “See, this is what I have to put up with every freaking day.”

Thankfully, much to my internal relief, and in a gesture that warms me even further, he smirks as well. “No wonder you complain as much as you do.”

I baulk and recoil, curling a foreleg defensively. “I do not!”

He quirks an eyebrow knowingly and angles his head toward me. “There we go.”

“No.” I point the same foreleg at him from across the table. “No, no, no, you don’t get to play that card with me. You can’t just make a claim like that and say I can’t defend myself.”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

I narrow my eyes and lean back, holding his gaze as I scrunch my snout to contain a grin. “You’re a cruel one, Mister Montero.”

“Maybe, maybe.” He nods as if reflecting on the notion, but then snickers and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t take you seriously with a face like that.”

I blink, sitting more upright and relax my muzzle somewhat, glancing to Spitfire and Soarin with an eyebrow raised curiously. “A face like what?”

“That — the thing you just did. It’s just… precious.”

I pause.

Precious.

Why does that word make me feel like I’ve had a blanket draped over my shoulders? Why does my chest tighten on the next breath? Why do my wings twitch in a subconscious effort to hug myself, and the corners of my mouth curl upward against my will? And is it just me, or is the air a little more humid?

“Do you have some kind of grudge against me, or do you pick on me just for fun?”

“What, it’s a crime to compliment you?”

I shake my head again bemusedly, then look to Spitfire. “Spitty, help me out, please.”

She snorts to herself before reaching over for another chip and glancing up at Philip while she dunks it in the chilli. “Alright, cut it out, big guy, or you’ll make her blush.”

He blinks at her with widening eyes. “You can do that?”

“Yep.” Spitfire nods once, returning her attention to me with a devious twinkle in her eye. “And on Fleetfoot, it’s the gosh darn cutest thing you’ll ever see.”

“You little shit.”

“Now, Fleetybee,” Philip playfully scolds, “is that any way to speak to your captain?”

“Oh no, we don’t pull rank in here,” Soarin interjects, leaning forward for a chip of his own. “All that business, we leave on the doorstep.”

“Not even as a joke?”

“Nah.” Shaking her head, Spitfire, lifts up her bottle to better see what’s left in the light. “Don’t get us wrong, we’re still professionals, and we take our jobs seriously — I know I certainly do — but as far as I’m concerned, if you’ve made the team, you’re A-okay in my books. No need to go flashing your badge in anyone’s face. If you have a problem with how I run my ship, we talk about it. I’m not shoving my decision down your throat if I can help it.”

Philip blinks, surprised. “That’s… different.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “It’s not the same on your Earth?”

“Not really. At least, not that I know of, and certainly not in any military unit.”

“Hmm.” She nods. “Well, technically speaking, we’re a branch of the military, but I’m no tyrant — that’s not my business. And it’s worked out for the last seventeen years, so here’s to that.”

I let my breath go, happy the conversation’s turned away from me for the time being. I peer out to the rest of the bar out of idle interest, perhaps for a distraction, and note how dissimilar it is compared to other establishments here in the capital.

Where most buildings were constructed almost entirely from crystal, the interior here is brick and wood, bringing to mind some of the more traditional pubs down in Equestria proper. The faint but distinguishable smell of liquor permeates the air, and the music playing is one of those bands that popped up as soon as the songs from Philip’s world hit the airwaves. The Kings, I think this lot calls themselves.

Typical. And of course, he and Soarin have started singing along while I’ve been lost in my surroundings. He has a nice singing voice, but if I listen too long, I might find myself getting carried away with the lyrics, so I try searching for something else to take my interest.

The Streak twins play darts against Thunderlane and Rainbow while Sun Chaser and Surprise watch on. Blaze and Wave sit by the bar itself and talk about something — probably the latter’s pen pals, considering how much Wave’s jaw flaps and Blaze nods. Misty chats with Brave, Phalanx and Ironside in the corner, as well as Hurricane, who was invited as thanks for her service on our second world tour.

As for Philip, Spitfire invited him after we met up when the show was finished. What compelled her, I don’t know, but I didn’t complain at the time. Maybe she wanted to size him up in person, and not rely on me or the news for an opinion. That still begs the question of why, though…

I shake my head to clear my mind, but when I notice I’m staring at a yellow foreleg, I trace my way up its limb to see her already staring back at me. Not with any particular emotion behind her fiery eyes, but there’s something about it that feels meaningful; she knows something. And the heaviness in my stomach tells me I already know what.

I look away, and the second I do, I know I’ve made a mistake; I should’ve asked her what was wrong, or made some witty quip — draw attention away from me and shine the spotlight on her.

And at last, it’s over — two more avenues of conversation have opened up, except I can’t bare to look one in the eyes at the moment. I clear my throat and glance over to my right.

“So, Soarin…” Spitfire beats me to the finish line — which is for the best, I suppose, since I wouldn’t have had any idea what to open with anyway, “if you could pick any of us to be your perfect honeybee, who would it be?”

My insides sink and a bolt of ice strikes right through me from neck to croup. She definitely knows, and I should’ve known better than to hide it from her. I can only hope she’s merciful enough to do me the small justice of not torturing me too much.

Soarin, however, seems positively gobsmacked, sitting completely straight with an equally straight face, like she’d offered to do something completely indecent with him in front of the entire team. “Uh… come again?”

“You go on a date with one of us. Who?”

He hesitates, blinking, his blank expression slowly giving way to uneasiness and embarrassment. His ears lower and he chuckles awkwardly, a gentle blush sneaking its way across his cheeks. “Why do you ask, exactly?”

“Shooting the shit.” She shrugs. “Still have a few boxes of chocolates leftover from Hearts and Hooves Day, and that song made me think about them. Figured I’d ask something random to spark another conversation — you get the drift.”

Fan mail candy. Yes, I have a box myself stored in the fridge, addressed from a secret admirer in Vanhoover. I don’t get them as often as other, more prominent members of the team do, so I still have a certain stigma around them; in a way, it feels like somepony’s stalking me. Spitfire merely rolls her eyes and accepts the treats for what they are: free candy. But I’m not that tolerant. And now I think I…

I glance at Philip.

He watches Soarin keenly, seemingly focussing on the now definite blush than whatever’s being said. His eyes are small, but they’re always so animated.

“Well, uh…” Soarin shifts his weight and taps the table with a hoof in thought, and no small amount of discomfort, “that’s a loaded question, Spits.”

“Why? You’ve stopped being an obnoxious flirt?”

“…Okay, firstly, ouch. Secondly… I’m not really sure I should be picking favourites.”

“Fine then, I’ll go first. You.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You heard me.” She plucks another chip from the basket and smothers it in sauce. “I think I’d enjoy dating you the most. Aside from a few kinks I could overlook or grind down with sandpaper, you have a personality I can get behind. We see each other often enough anyway, so… yeah. What’s the harm in giving it a shot?”

Yeah, she knows, and she’s twisting the dagger hard.

“Your turn.”

Soarin blinks again, more than a little flustered, but tries to swallow his pride and glances about to his left. I try to keep a neutral face and hold his gaze while our fourth companion picks out two more chips, now either lacking interest or trying to appear uninterested.

“I guess I’d have to go with Philip.”

If he’d been drinking something, I’m sure it’d have come out of his nose. He waits a moment, blinking at nothing in particular, then looks up at Soarin bemusedly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Well, we, uh… barely know each other, and what better way to fix that than a nice chat over dinner? Or at the movies, or whatever you prefer.”

He blinks again, then sits back, leaving his chips in the dip, his expression turning from bemused to… something unreadable; troubled is the more appropriate word, with a hint of sympathy. “Well, I hate to break it you, Soarin, but—”

“He’s not being serious, Philip,” Spitfire interrupts, shrugging. “We’re just having some fun.”

“Ah.” His face and shoulders relax and he lowers his gaze, breathing a small, silent sigh of relief, which makes the sinking feeling in my gut bubble up. Then he returns to Soarin with a forced, but otherwise good-natured smirk and lightly shakes his head. “Well then, I’m flattered, bud, but unfortunately for you, I don’t swing that way.”

Soarin cocks his head, the blush now mostly faded. “Swing what way?”

Philip blinks once more, the smirk giving way to curiosity. “Males.”

Sorain blinks as well, and then his eyes widen. “Oh, you mean like the, um…” he taps a hoof on the table in thought, “the exclusive types, right?”

“…Yeah, I… think so.” Philip squints. “Wait, you mean to tell me it’s not the norm here?”

“Once upon a time it was,” Spitfire casually explains, plucking another chip. “Not anymore. It was even enforced in some of the more warlike city-states before Equestria was founded, to keep up the number of available troops. Now, like tribalism, it’s a dying belief.”

He retrieves one of the fries he’d left in the sauce and inspects it with a tiny, introspective smile before popping it in his mouth. “The gays have taken over.”

“Pretty much.”

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head wistfully.

“So, who’d you pick?”

I close my eyes, but try not to squeeze them shut. I let my ears angle back, but refuse to let them flatten. I breathe deep and slow, but try not to let it show. I pull my wings in, as if to shield me from some indiscernible blow. A long while passes, and no answer comes, and I begin to worry I’ve been caught out.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to play.”

“Still too out there for you?”

“Very much so.”

“But has it crossed your mind?”

Another pause; I can almost hear him frowning at her, and the silence is deafening.

“Not even as a purely romantic partner?”

“I’m not talking about this while sober, and not with you.”

My ear twitches, and I realise how hard my heart is beating against my chest. By my reckoning, that wasn’t a flat rejection, which means…

No. No, he couldn’t possibly…

“Okay, okay, I can respect boundaries,” Spitfire soothes, no doubt sporting a subdued, understanding look, judging by her tone. “Can’t help but wonder, though, now you’re settled in, what’s the next chapter in the life of this world’s first human?”

“Does there need to be?”

She pauses, thinking. “Not necessarily, but if I were mooching off Celestia’s payroll day in, day out without anything to show for it, I’d feel pretty aimless. And besides, the rest of your life is a long time to spend alone.”

“Well then, where’s your special someone?”

I wince, and my ears sink a little further. He didn’t say it spitefully, or with much hostility, but the point he made was… cutting. And I’m the one it was aimed at. I creak open my eyes and peer up at the scene cautiously, keeping my snout trained on the empty glass in front of me.

Philip sits with his arms folded and head angled toward Spitfire, a brow raised expectantly while his eyelids sit at half-mast. Spitfire holds his gaze with a blank stare, neither shocked, upset, nor insulted — the perfect poker face, not unlike him when he’s at his most stoic. Soarin, however, watches on with a stunned expression, ears pinned back and wings somewhat limp at his sides.

A new song comes on; I Love You Always Forever. I’ll have to remind myself to sock Rainbow one when tonight’s finished, being the pony who made the jukebox selections.

“I can also tell when I’ve crossed a line,” Spitfire finally states, and much to my surprise — though I really shouldn’t be, in immediate retrospect — there’s no offence behind any of her words; she’s dealt with worse and grown thicker skin from it. She turns her attention to Soarin and offers him a small, genial smile. “Care for a dance, Clipper?”

Soarin snaps to her and shuts his mouth, blinking as his perk up. “Me?”

“Of course.” She cocks her head innocently. “Would you like to?”

He blinks a few more times, glancing to Philip and I, then gives a grateful shrug. “Well, I mean, if you’re offering…”

“Come on,” she beckons, sliding out of the booth and ambling for an open section of the wooden floor. “Let’s leave these two be for a bit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soarin answers, hopping from his seat and eagerly trotting after her.

I watch them from the corner of my eye, and I feel hollow; Soarin’s doing this to take his mind off what he’d just witnessed, but Spitfire’s removing herself from the equation to give us privacy — to give me an opportunity. One I know I shouldn’t waste on her account, or on mine, and the second I discovered these feelings, I knew this moment was inevitable. It just sucks when the thing you’ve been dreading — and in some strangely unpleasant and twisted way, craving — finally stares you in the face.

Whether I’m craving a release from mounting pressure or something more definitive, like… an answer… I can’t be sure. And I’m not sure I want to; the air on my right feels cool, empty and uninviting, and on my left, the brick wall offers me no protection. I’m backed into a corner, and the out short of a bumbling, rushed excuse is forward.

Him.

Always him.

Every complaint, every boon, every new development, it’s all been shared with him.

Then what’s the harm in sharing this?

I blow a quiet, ragged sigh as I return to and toy with my glass. We’re at the point where nothing either of us could say would shock the other, but this is something else entirely, and considering how poorly Spitfire’s attempt at buttering him up had gone…

He deserves to know.

He does.

You need to tell him.

I do.

Then buck up, sister. You can do this. You’ve been through worse and you’ll go through worse, it just doesn’t seem that way in the now. Heck, you’ve put up with everypony else’s crap for long enough — it’s about time somepony put up with yours.

A gentle snort escapes me and a subdued smirk creeps its way across my lips. Arguing with myself is a pointless endeavour, but at least I have a good sense of humour. I think. For the most part. It’s tough to judge when I’m my own critic.

“I think I like you, Philip.”

“I think I like you too, Fleetybee.”

My ears twitch, and as the words sink in, I frown; he sounded as nonchalant as I had, and bearing in mind what I’d just declared, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. So, inquisitively, I soften my expression and slightly raise my snout, peering at him from behind upturned brows.

He stares off into the distance, watching the dart game with a neutral gaze, munching on the chip he’d taken from sweet chilli dip. Of course he hadn’t heard — nothing’s never perfect the first time, or we wouldn’t need rehearsals.

I shake my head. “No, Philip.”

He quirks an eyebrow, but lingers on the game a few seconds more before finally returning to me. And even then, he’s unsuspecting; he hasn’t picked up on the vibe I’m laying down. But I suppose I can’t blame him: if Soarin or Spitfire did this to me, it’d blindside me too. It’s just a shame I have to bring a mallet to hammer in this nail.

“I think I like you.”

He doesn’t react at first, as if the notion confuses him, but as he begins to process the information, his eyes widen, his brows rise, his lips part, and he leans back in his seat, all in slow-motion. And there he stays for a good, long, timeless while, stunned, his gaze almost vacant — empty, like the chilling whispering its way up my spine.

This was a mistake, it tells me. I’d spooked him, scared him off — realised his worst fears. He won’t want to talk with me anymore, and any interaction with anypony else will remind him of this very moment, and the dangers of letting another creature care too much for you.

But if that were the case, he’d be walking out of here right this instant. And so, the whispers remain just that: whispers.

Instead, and at long last, his eyes lower to the table.

“Oh.”

Genuinely surprised, he seems, but his response doesn’t feel directed at the fact — more so his reaction; he’s not forcing himself to be calm, he is calm. That’s what’s surprising him. But considering how many revelations he’s taken relatively well in the past, where other ponies would’ve kicked and screamed or given in to despair, I don’t see why. This is how he’s always been, and that’s the way I like him.

“Well,” he begins, swallowing and clearing his throat, “you know I’m not—”

“I know.”

He meets my gaze again, curious. “Then…”

“I just thought you ought to know,” I murmur, shrugging, then shake my head and look away. “You know, in case things got… weirder than they are. I don’t want to talk about it right now, but… soon, okay?”

He pauses, and I wait, but no response comes; even the shadow he casts on the edge of my vision remains perfectly still. Letting the question hang could be his way of saying yes, but in another light, he could be too afraid to say no. And if that’s the case, then I need to be sure — I need a definite answer. This is too important to leave to chance.

I slowly slide my hoof a little closer across the table and turn the frog up. And as I do so, I just as carefully lift my gaze.

He watches my hoof with faintly furrowed brows for what feels like minutes, but is probably only a few short seconds, before locking eyes with me. There’s hesitation in the air about him, though how deep it runs is left to the imagination, which is precisely what I don’t want.

“We’re still good, right?” I ask as loud as I’m able with the music playing over everything, while making sure I let my own trepidation show. Neither of us are certain about this — there’s no use hiding it. And if he knows we’re both new to this, then maybe we can take comfort in each other’s inexperience.

Another long pause as he thinks to himself, never wandering off or glancing away. His shoulders rise and fall in a silent, gradual sigh, and on the outward breath, his attention drifts back to my hoof. His lips press together and the corners of his mouth stretch to either side; a decision had been reached.

But just as I begin to fear for the worst, a hand falls to his lap as he leans forward from the backrest, and the other floats on over to hold my hoof, and gives me a gentle squeeze.

A toothless shiver runs up my foreleg and buries itself within my withers. A hug is more intimate, I know, but there’s something about this that feels… cosy — like I could get used to it. And as I peer up and into his eyes once more, that feeling only grows.

“Yeah,” he whispers, then meets my gaze again, and a soft, kindly, sympathetic smile sneaks through. “We’re good.”

A breath I didn’t realise I was holding inaudibly escapes me.

Calm acceptance. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And that’s the worst of it over; all that’s left is what comes next — in other words, the rest of my life. No big deal, really, so long as I break it down into itty bitty parts, starting with the immediate aftermath and the… unexpectedly comfortable silence between us. So, in reality, I suppose I don’t need to do all that much.

My attention — and his, after a quick glance — settles upon a pair of ponies dancing in the centre of the bar, one wreathed in the colours of fire, and the other in the colours of a cloudy sky. Pachata, by the looks of it — a lively but simple romp that matches well with the song — and neither can keep an amiable smile from their faces. Others watch from the sidelines, heads swaying with the beat and hooves tapping along, infected with a similar sense of delight.

I smile too. It isn’t anything big, and I’m not quite sure what spurs it, but I smile all the same. Perhaps, after two weeks, I’m relieved to finally say what I’ve been meaning to say, but this doesn’t feel like relief — that’s where a weight is lifted from your shoulders.

This?

It’s warm. It bubbles. And when I sneak another peek at him, it mellows.

I don’t know what’ll happen next, but come what may, I’ll take it in my stride.

Maybe there’s something to this romance business after all.

Next Chapter: 20 | Crushes and the Pitfalls Therein Estimated time remaining: 10 Hours, 60 Minutes