Favours.

It only took two: one from Spike, and one from Twilight. They may not have owed me directly, but we could all agree we cared for his wellbeing, so it stood to reason they’d help me smooth things over with him. Or at least help facilitate the process. Everything else was able to sort itself out from there.

Champion Stadium in Las Pegasus comes from an age when the city was airborne, and valued martial prowess above the casinos and extravagant parties it’s now famous for.

In fact, if I recall correctly, there was a brief time shortly after Equestria’s founding where gladiatorial sports were still carried out here, before the Sisters caught whiff, and that’s where its name comes from. The architectural style matches, even if the cloud it was originally made from has long since been replaced by more earthly materials; marble, concrete and the like. It’s still a sight to see, and the largest stadium in the whole kingdom if you exclude the Crystal Empire.

I begin my descent toward the eastern landing pad on the sixth tier. Though the show itself hasn’t started, I can already hear the eager muttering of thousands of ponies in their seats, and many more yet to be funnelled through the gates. It’s a clear sky today, neither too hot nor too cold, but so is every day or night of a Wonderbolt performance, unless the routine demands otherwise. Less of a convenience for the audience, who’d have to dress appropriately, but what’s life without a little spice?

Of course, if you shake stuff up too much, you might end up doing things you never wanted to do, and being sick over the toilet about them.

Which is why I’m arriving presently, and not with the rest of the team. Can I fix my mistakes? That largely depends on how you interpret the word ‘fix’. I’ve definitely come to make amends, though — to set things right, or as well as I’m able — and considering he’s agreed to make use of that plus one slot, I’d hazard a guess to say he’s at least receptive.

Quite the reversal since last we talked, but it’s been a month. Something might’ve changed. For all I know, this could just be him saying goodbye and disappearing from my life altogether. I doubt it, but now I’ve thought about it, the image won’t go away. Brains are frustrating that way.

Touching down on the pad at a trot, I fold my wings and continue into the stadium complex. Stylishly opulent, as most older Las Pegasus buildings tend to be, but it’s lacking the one thing the city is also known for: activity. Instead, members of the Royal Guard stand watch. Not many — only four by the entrance proper — but their presence alone is enough to alert anypony that somepony under their protection is in the vicinity.

Officially, they’re here as a supplement security detail, courtesy of Celestia, at Twilight’s behest. Ten thousand ponies are a bit much for just three guards to handle, after all. But unofficially, if the lack of would-be spectators isn’t any indication, their actual task is a bit more nuanced; keep any and all prying eyes turned away.

I give one guard a small nod as I pass him by, and he watches me go for as long as he’s able while never moving his head. Recognition and confusion, I sense — he knows his orders and he’ll carry them out to the letter, he just doesn’t understand them.

That’s okay. For now, all I need is their silent obedience. The less word gets out about this meeting, the better. Enough rumours are already circulating about why the weekly get-togethers at the Lunar Bean had suddenly stopped, up to and including some disturbingly accurate theories.

Of course, being the respectable pony I am, I’ve put them out of my mind as much as possible… but those thoughts are never far enough away. They linger beneath the surface — a reminder to what’s happened. To what I’ve done. What I’ve broken.

Focus.

I blink hard and shake my head. Now’s not the time to feel sorry for myself — I’ve had a whole month to do that and get over it; now’s the time for action, and that’s what I’m doing. I woke up determined and I’m staying determined. Dreading how terribly things could go, naturally, but determined to see it through regardless, and not run away with tears in my eyes and my tail between my legs like last time. I’m stronger, wiser.

I am in control.

Past the salad bar, the actual bar, and both their unoccupied counters. Past the seating and dining areas where audience members can have a proper conversation without shouting over everypony else. Past two guards flanking the double doors — which is a similar situation for all the visible exits — a few twists and turns later, and I’m at last ambling down this section’s walkway for the private booths. Glowing signs denote each entrance’s letter and number, but I don’t need to look at them to know where I’m headed.

A pair of guards stand by R35; one’s familiar, the other isn’t. He stares at me coldly as I approach, almost judgementally, like I don’t belong here; it threatens to prod at my fight-or-flight response, and my track record easily favours the latter.

But I’m not backing down.

“Halt,” he orders, holding out an armoured foreleg. He seems young for a Royal Guard — early twenties, I reckon — and although he doesn’t sound exactly hostile, there’s certainly something… guarded about his tone. Pun intended. “State your business.”

I slow myself to a standstill and blink, ears attentive as I turn my gaze from him to Brave, silently asking where this is coming from and whether she could please help me.

With a quick, subtle roll of the eyes, she strides to his side and gives him a nudge, knocking him off balance just enough that he has to put his forehoof down. “Cut it out, Able. Give her a break. We know who she is and what she’s here for.”

He looks at her almost as if she’d uttered something incomprehensible. “But, ma’am, protocol dictates—"

“Protocol can shove itself where the sun don’t shine if we’ve been through the same routine over and over and over again. I know Fleetfoot when I see her.”

“She could be a changeling.”

Her eyelids lower to half-mast, and then she turns to me. “Are you a changeling?”

I hesitate for a moment, but quickly shake my head.

“There,” she says with an approving smile, face brightening, glancing over to the other guard. “See, she’s shy around new ponies — tends not to talk when she doesn’t know them well enough. So, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

He stares at her a short while, almost blankly, but then blinks and returns to me, clears his throat, and gives a practiced salute, looking off to some indefinite point above my head. “Able Hooves, ma’am, at the ready. Forgive my prudence, I’m just not used to things being so lax, especially considering the, uh… singular nature of our mutual friend.”

“He’s a newbie,” Brave explains, rolling her eyes and angling her head toward me, which earns her a sideways, somewhat sour glance from Able. “Phalanx took some time off about a week back, to be with his aunt while she’s in the hospital, and this boy here’s acting as a stand-in. Another Stella situation, essentially, but more uptight and less boorish.”

“I’m not uptight.”

“Fine; you’re eager,” she corrects herself, making sure he knew just how little distinction there could be between the two. And then she returns to me once more with a small but undeniably amicable smile. “But don’t worry, ma’am, he’ll get the memo eventually. And if he doesn’t? Well… it’s been ages since I’ve had the chance to knock somepony’s teeth out.”

“You do that, and I’ll report you.”

“You’ll try.” She chuckles, stepping aside and beckoning me through with a gentle sweep of the foreleg. “Anyway, we shouldn’t keep him waiting, should we?”

Again, I hesitate, though I don’t quite know what I’m unsure of. But I lift my head, fluff my wings, and try not to let the tension show as I walked toward the entrance.

“Oh, and also, one other thing; I’m sorry about what happened.”

I freeze midstride and feel a cold emptiness sink blunt but vicious teeth into my side, urging me to jerk away from her, even if it meant bowling into Amble on my right. My ears angle back and my tail clamps down, and my mouth seems a little drier than normal.

“He told us.”

I stiffly angle my head just a little way to the left and peer at her from the corner of my eye. “What?” I utter mutely, and the itch in my wings for me to fly out of here now feels like a legitimate option.

“Yeah.” She nods, more sombre than she was only moments ago. “You know, the storm. How it started. I can’t imagine what that feels like, knowing you’re… well… responsible for all this.”

I blink, staring at her, and as I finally process the words, I suddenly find myself almost overcome with relief — my legs threaten to buckle underneath my own weight; not shaky, not woozy, just weak. “Oh, yeah, yeah, right,” I reply, trying as best I can to keep myself steady and not sound like I’d just had a sequence of terrible flashbacks, and succeeding for the most part. “Thanks. I’m, uh… I’m sorry for that too.”

She smiles again, modest and sympathetic, then steps closer so she stands by my side. It’s a little intrusive, but for whatever reason, also welcome. “I won’t lie, ma’am: you telling him this? It hit him hard. But what hurt him even more was… well…”

I remain perfectly still, now steady and slightly reassured, but find an eyebrow rising on its own, and my ears perking up.

Brave puckers her lips and lowers her gaze for a moment, clearly wondering how to say what she wants to say, but returns to me with an earnest look. “He missed you, Fleetfoot,” she finishes, quiet and heartfelt, the smile shrinking to only the faintest of upward curls. “He never said it out loud… but he missed you. We all did.”

I continue to stare, and the empty sensation spreads throughout my body, somehow weighing me down. I don’t know what to expect, so I don’t want to get my hopes up, but part of me can’t help wanting to believe her, and I know she’d have no reason to lie.

Part of me also doesn’t want to believe her; why would he miss me, considering everything he’d said about what I… what we…

About what happened.

About what it meant for him.

Focus.

I blink again, and the thoughts are gone. I’m standing between two guards, one of whom I know, and the pony they’re guarding is just through those doors. I know where I’m going, I know what I’m saying, and it won’t end like it did before. I’m stronger than that. I know I am.

I don’t get stage fright.

“You good?”

I gently nod.

“Good.” Brave strolls back to her post beside the entrance, and Able follows her lead. “Well then, he’s all yours. Break a leg, ma’am.”

I nod once more, then amble onward, step by step, closer and closer.

The doors are an extremely pale shade of blue, almost totally white, trimmed along the edges in the swirling patterns of stylised clouds, echoing the city’s heritage. No glass and no way to see through — private booths are designed to be private, after all, magically or otherwise. Quite an unsuspecting view, really — nothing pegs it as something I should be timid about, and yet it may as well be the gateway to Tartarus itself.

But it isn’t. I have to remember that. Things are only as bad as I imagine them to be; with the right mindset, anything is possible. It worked for the Pillars, it worked for the Sisters, it worked for the Bearers, so why wouldn’t it work for me?

…I shouldn’t even think of trying to answer that.

I glance left and right at Able and Brave, who respectively return my looks with recognition and assurance; they can’t speak for me, but they’ll be nearby as a safety net.

That’s all I can ask for, I suppose. It’s time to trust myself enough not to fall.

I take in a deep, quiet breath, then pull open one of the doors and slip inside.

Silence.

I trundle down the darkness of a short, relatively narrow hallway, then up am equally short flight of stairs. The space opens up as I enter the booth proper; a miniature movie theatre, in its basic design, with three rows of cushioned seats facing a giant window, and two more windows on either side offering a wide view of the stadium’s interior.

I’m not focussed on the stadium, however; I’m paying attention to something far more important. Something in the first row. Something looking directly ahead. Something who couldn’t possibly have failed to noticed my arrival.

It’s difficult to gauge his expression, let alone the air around him; his brows are creased and his lips are straight, staring out at nothing in particular, purposely avoiding me. Whether this is him giving me the cold shoulder, I can’t say: he doesn’t appear hostile — or at least, not outwardly. I’ve been wrong before.

You’ve been right before too.

Let’s not hedge our bets today.

Acutely aware of the sound of my hooves on the carpet, and how they seem to drown the rumble and vibrations of the crowd assembled below, I carefully make my way toward him. It’s a delicate affair, neither keen for the coming engagement, but not hesitant either — somewhere in between is the perfect balance, and my nerves straining to walk that fine line.

It’s just us in here — me and him. Nopony can hear us, nopony can judge us. He accepted my proposal, which means that even if he doesn’t want to listen, he has something to say himself. It’s my responsibility to hear him out. Nopony else’s.

I am in control.

Reaching the seat next to him, I hop up and sit on my haunches, presenting myself as dignified as I can manage, for what little that’s worth to either of us anymore. But I have done both of us a service by clothing myself, at least: the silver and white tracksuit that covers my body from collar to fetlocks. No way I’ll ever not be conscious of just how exposed I am compared to him from now on.

He’s wearing a rust-coloured shirt with faded lettering, olive cargo pants, and the only pair of sneakers he owns. His jaw, chin and mouth bear a familiar shadow — unshaven again, but not as unkempt as he’d once let it grow. One hand grips the other’s thumb — a habit of his, I’ve come to realise, whether he knows it himself or not.

He hasn’t moved in any meaningful way since I entered, but he isn’t exactly stiff either, so I’m no closer to figuring out what his mood is or what he’s thinking. I could just ask, but that wouldn’t be tactful, and this situation demands a lot of it, especially knowing how poorly it could go. A direct approach, therefore, is an unwise move.

But I’ve never been known for my wisdom.

I shut my eyes and hang my head, ears lowering as I sigh at my own foolishness, bracing myself for the inevitable backlash. “Philip, I—”

“I’m sorry.”

I snap to him, surprised, but not in wide-eyed shock.

He continues staring ahead, the air around him taking on a distinctly uneasy quality, and the grip on his thumb tightens. He glances away to the right for a long moment, breathes deep, and then angles his head to the left, peering at me with a somewhat forlorn look. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, just slightly louder than before, but no less fragile. And then he lowers his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t… I mean… I wasn’t…”

I feel my ears slowly rise as I wait for him to gather his nerves. He’d prepared for this, I can tell, but right now, the words were failing him. If I’d been allowed to talk first, I can easily see myself in his shoes, because beyond his name, I honestly don’t know what I’d planned to say. So, I let him think.

His teeth clench behind a closed mouth and he shuts his eyes, still breathing deeply, coming to terms with himself. I don’t want to compare suffering, but objectively speaking, he’s dealing with a lot more baggage than I am.

I shuffle in my seat as the rotten feeling from a month ago begins taking root, and my hindlegs and tail bring themselves in.

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” he finally says, glancing at me as he does so, but he can’t hold my gaze and returns to the floor. “I was… scared… and confused, and hungover and angry. But not at you. I mean, I took it out on you, but I just… It wasn’t you I was angry with. Not really. In the moment, yes, but afterwards…”

I know the feeling. Not to the same degree, as I’ve never been in this kind of situation before, pony or otherwise, and certainly not with a being from another dimension, but it isn’t unfamiliar. You hate yourself because something you couldn’t control happened, or didn’t think to control, and that bad mood gets passed on to others; offered help seems condescending, idle queries become invasive probes. And then when you think back on it, when your head’s clearer… you hate yourself even more.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he continues, murmuring. “I’m sorry about how I said it. How I acted… Everything. I wasn’t thinking about you — how you felt. And… that wasn’t right. At all. I was in shock, sure, but… that’s not really an excuse. It can’t be, at least — not… not with you.”

An ear twitches, and my eyebrow quirks.

“Like, I don’t want to say it was inevitable, or… or anything like that… but there was always a chance, wasn’t there?” He turns to me, still uncertain, but this time, his eyes stay locked with mine. “A chance that, at some point… I just wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

And now my brows crease.

It almost sounds like he’s trying to say…

“I don’t know who kissed who first or who asked for what, but… something just… snapped, I guess. But that makes it sound like there’s some kind of switch you can turn on and off, which there’s not, and…” He shrugs, shaking his head to the floor once more, closing his eyes and sighing quietly. “I don’t know anymore. I guess I just needed space and time, but... didn’t know how to ask it. Didn’t think to either.”

Although it pains me to realise it, I think I know what he’s trying to say. “Do you still need some time by yourself?”

“No.” He looks to me again, desperate. “Please.”

I blink and shut my mouth, surprised.

He turns away and chews on his cheeks, breathing deep again, taking his time. The grip on his thumb tightens even further as he begins to gently rock back and forth.

The urge to wrap my wing around him and pull him close bubbles to the surface, but I force it down and let him process things on his own. It wouldn’t be appropriate, and it might even make him feel belittled, as if he were a child and big, grown-up Fleetfoot would make everything better. Made worse when I’m partly responsible for pushing him down the stairs.

“I really don’t know what to think anymore, Fleet,” he states dispassionately, a subtle but definite quaver in his voice, staring straight down at the floor again, glancing at me on occasion. “I mean… you’re a pony… and you can’t change that. You can’t change how you feel about me either.

“But despite all that, we are — or were — friends. Brave, Phalanx and Ironside are my friends too, but they’re not you. And every time I thought back on why I drove you away, all I could think about was… well… us. Me and you, together. At the hospital, Twilight’s, my study desk in Canterlot, the Bean, the bar, the beach, the…”

Part of me begs myself to keep quiet and listen to the rest, but his pause offers too good an opportunity for me to pass up my two bits. “We don’t have to stop being friends, Philip.”

He looks to me and pauses, apprehensive, restless. “Then what does this mean for us? Aren’t we, like… friends with benefits now, or something?”

“No,” I answer decisively, but it lacks any real weight behind it, and I lower my gaze as my legs and tail pull in even closer. “It was a mistake — an… an accident. One we’ll be careful never to make again. We’re still friends, just with…”

“Complicated feelings.”

I hesitate, but eventually nod.

He turns away again, biting the edge of his lip, thinking. Always with the thinking and the waiting — a necessary but altogether dreadful evil for all the ultimate good having a talk like this might do for us. “So then, what?” he wonders aloud with a small, crestfallen shrug, then peers at me from the corner of his eye. “We’re just going to sweep this under the rug as if nothing happened? Pick up where we left off?”

“Is that what you want?”

He pauses, staring at me for a moment, then looks off toward the entrance behind me, slowly casting his worried gaze across the entire stadium outside, or what’s visible over it.

I watch and wait, and every passing seconds feels like an eternity; the silence is deafening, practically drowning out even the crowd. The familiar weight of dread blankets my withers and seeps down into my stomach, gradually dragging my wings with it. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I fear the worst.

How is it that my emotions can accept so many contradictions?

I look to the left, neck sagging, ears flattening, searching for something, anything to take my mind off the situation at large, and finding nothing. I can’t even summon the energy to guess at the faint reflections in the windows.

“I want to go home.”

A beat.

The words sink in, and they sting.

My head droops and I shut my eyes; of course that’s what he wants. It’s always been what he wants, and there’s no way I can argue with that — I’d want the same if I were him, and so would anypony else I know. And there’s no way on Earth, mine or his, that I could ever ask him to choose between staying and leaving.

“From the second I got here, that’s all I ever wanted. My old life. The motel. Minigolf. Mum, Dad, Anita… They weren’t perfect — they had their ups and downs — but if nothing else, then at the very least, to just see their faces in person again… To say a proper goodbye… I would’ve been so happy.”

A silent, defeated sigh escapes me and I turn my head toward him a little way, peering at him from the corner of my eye. I can’t and don’t blame him for feeling how he feels, and that’s the worst part about this — it’s a matter of circumstance, and nopony here, there or anywhere is at any direct fault; if I point a hoof at one, I may as well point a hoof at all.

He’s reclining in his chair, head slumped over the backrest, gazing up at the ceiling with closed eyes and faint, nostalgic smile playing on his lips, reminiscing. But then he looks to me, and while the smile doesn’t completely fade, it shrinks.

I can’t help feeling responsible.

“But sometimes what we want… isn’t always what we need.”

An ear twitches, perking up, and the other soon follows, and my head turns a little further.

He looks up to the ceiling again and gives himself time to think, seeming to grow more sombre by the second. “How did you know you liked me, Fleet?”

I blink, snapping to him fully, and my lips part. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He returns to me, solemn. “How did you know?”

I blink again, then shut my mouth and recompose myself as best I can, staring at the seat beneath me. No assumptions — it could be an innocent query. “I’m, uh… not sure, honestly,” I confess, glancing up at him. “There just reached a point where… you were as important to me as being a Wonderbolt. And whenever I wasn’t training, or hanging out with the team, or meeting with Mum and Dad… I…”

He waits patiently.

I meet his gaze, and I feel a part of me wither, both at how pathetic it must sound and the fact I’m saying it to his face — a face that looks more empathetic than it has any reason to be. “I just missed being around you. I missed talking with you, and… and laughing with you… and I missed your smile.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “My smile?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding, then lower my gaze and my ears as I feel warmth rise in my chest and cheeks, an upward but bashful curl in both corners of my mouth. “You have a nice smile.”

He snorts, and the smile breaks through again. Not as wide as I know it can be, but an appreciative gesture, for whatever it’s worth. “And you have beautiful eyes.”

I shrug. “They’re just contacts.”

“I know.” He gently shakes his head. “I’m not talking about your contacts.”

I look up at him once more. The warmth becomes a simmer.

His eyes stay locked with mine for a long while, his expression amiable. But as with everything, the good times come to an end. Slowly, of course — a gradual transition from friendly to neutral to pensive, his gaze drifting off to the right. And he makes no sound as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

My smile, too, fades.

“When Spike convinced me to see you… he helped me see things more clearly,” he says, giving a small, reluctant shrug. “I missed you too, Fleet. A lot. More than I cared to admit, even to him; for all I know, maybe even to myself. Whether that’s the same as what you’ve been feeling, I can’t say, but I know I’ve missed… well… knowing someone cares for me. As more than just a friend.

“And I guess that’s why I’ve been so placid with this one-way crush of yours — why I played with fire for so long. But then you wrote that song, and…”

Once more, I give him the time he needs, and my chest burns with the memory of that night — how he looked at me from across the fire, how speechless he was. And to think how even now, he’s choking up over it.

He continues staring off into nowhere for another long while. At first, I think he’s gathering his thoughts, but then he takes a short, sharp breath in through his nose, and a second, and he blinks quickly as if something’s irritating his eyes, and I realise that he’s fighting back tears.

“I need you in my life, Fleet.” He returns to me with a look of genuine heartache, his voice unsteady and quavering. “I don’t know if what I’m feeling for you is what you feel for me, but… I don’t want to be alone anymore. Please.”

There’s an overwhelming twinge in my stomach, and while I’m tempted comment how dramatic a change this is from when we last saw each other, I can’t help reaching over in my seat and wrapping my forelegs around his neck. I hug him close, I hug him well, and when I drape my head over his shoulder and shut my eyes, a grin sneaks through as much as it’s able. “You never will be,” I promise, my breath stuttered as I pull him closer, tighter. “Never.”

He welcomes the embrace with one of his own, shifting in his seat for a better angle, a hand in my mane, the other on my back, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. He doesn’t cry, but he whimpers, his body shuddering on the next breath he takes, heavy and ragged.

He needed to hear that. Heavens above, he needs me. And by the sound of it, as much as I’ve come to accept that I need him. We weren’t made for each other, and if there’s such a thing as destiny, I doubt it’s powerful enough to cross between dimensions, or even consider my pitiful life worth toying with.

No, this was an accident. All of it. From the rainboom that summoned him to that moment in the Lunar Bean, every point in between and every point going forward — it was all and continues to be a massively tragic, wonderfully enthralling accident. A contrary notion, to be sure, but I don’t know how else to describe it; once I started down this path, I never stopped.

And despite its hiccups, part of me — the majority — doesn’t want to.

“Would you like to give us a shot?”

He doesn’t react immediately, and as his silence stretches on, I feel his grip on me loosen. Not that he goes limp, but that the weight of my words have sunk in, and he’s having trouble finding an answer.

I can easily understand why; I’m having a hard time believing I’d said those words myself.

He gently pulls away and looks me in the eye, his face a little flushed, though the tears have gone away. His gaze is tender, caring, but with an undertone of apprehension.

“I’m not sure what I want from this,” I admit, settling back down in my seat with a shrug and lowering my eyes to the floor. “If we stay friends, that’ll be fine. I can live with that. But if there’s a chance that, maybe… we do feel the same… then maybe that’s something worth exploring.” I return to him, anxious to be putting some raw, unfiltered thoughts on the table. “Does that make any sense?”

He hesitates, shifting his weight as he glances to his right. “It… makes sense, Fleet,” murmurs uncertainly. “It’s just… not easy for me to accept. I mean… in a sense, I live here now. I have friends, a life, and maybe at some point, I don’t know… a job. But the more of a future I build for myself, the more distant my past becomes.” He shrugs and shakes his head, turning away to the stadium. “What happens if I find love? Is that the last straw? Does that mean I’ve… given up?”

“Of course not.” I reach over and take his hand into my hooves. “If going home means that much to you, I’ll gladly let you be. That’s a promise. But I think it’s best for us both if we… test the waters, so to speak. Nothing official, just… we see if we can… I don’t know… look past certain barriers.”

He peers at me from the corner of his eye; he knows what I’m talking about, and he’s not sure if he should feel ashamed.

“And if you find you want somepony, but not me… then I can live with that too.” The words feel acrid on my tongue, like I’m denying myself a once in a lifetime opportunity, but they’re the truth, and I pull his hand close and hug it to my chest as I lean over and rest against his shoulder, looking up at him. “I love you, Philip. I just want to see you happy.”

He lingers on me, turning his head somewhat, to the point where our snouts are only an inch or so apart. Kissing distance. Intimate. An inappropriate thought, but one I can’t help thinking. But then his hesitancy slowly fades into a small, tight-lipped, appreciative smile, and his free hand reaches across to lay itself just behind my ear, gently stroking his fingers through my mane, down my neck.

Not what I’d been expecting, and some part of me was anxious for, but welcome, and I close my eyes and relish the burning warmth within me.

“I know you do, Fleetybee. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

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