Rain.

Of course it had to be raining. I’ll be indoors soon enough, but of all the days we could’ve chosen, it had to be the one a storm was scheduled for Fillydelphia. And this one is a doozy; it buckets down like a tropical squall, with winds so strong I can almost mistake it for a cyclone. If I hadn’t taken the saddlebags off my back and clasped them to my barrel, I’m sure they’d have been lost the second I flew into this absolute shocker of a storm.

Glad I had the foresight to bring my goggles. Now all that’s missing is some windscreen wipers, or whatever they’re called — my foreleg can only clear away so much, and it’s already drenched.

At least there’s no lightning. This package is too precious to lose over something as trivial as a thunderbolt. All I can hope for is that he’s ready with all the comforts at his disposal, or this will have been a trip for nothing.

…Well, not entirely nothing, I suppose; the company would be nice, as always, even if he’s the reason I’m enduring these horrendous winds to begin with.

Despite the elements, a snort escapes me and a smile sneaks through. I’ve faced worse conditions for other ponies before, usually for a team or family event, but this is the first time since Soarin and I had sleepovers during Junior Flight Camp where I’m doing this solely for myself and somepony else. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the case. The me from two years ago would be scratching at the walls and rattling her chains at any rate, if she hadn’t already been put six feet under.

So, here I am, braving another tempest. And I’m almost giddy with excitement.

Gosh, it’s been forever since I had that feeling — that sense of nearly boundless enthusiasm, It’s like I’m a preteen all over again, rushing to school for show and tell, if not to share something cool with the class, then to lord my bragging rights over everypony else. Kids are ruthless if left to their own devices. I know because I was one, once upon a time.

And now I’m thirty-three, and how the times have changed.

I weave through the skyscrapers, over the empty streets and squares, navigating the city as well as I’m able on the wing, but it isn’t easy; everything looks different from a bird’s eye view, even though it really shouldn’t matter how high you are, logically speaking. But sometimes the brain has a hard time sticking to more logical trains of thought — I’m only mortal, after all. Finding Equinox Park is easy enough, however, seeing as it’s the largest greenspace in the city, but I can’t remember if his new place was in the northern or southern apartment complex.

That’s the trouble when architects insist on going completely utilitarian in their designs — they lose their individuality. Or maybe I’m just being overly cynical and not bothering to look much deeper than the surface level. The rain must also be a factor, I suppose, since I don’t want to be soaked to the bone for a single second longer than absolutely necessary, and especially for the sake of ruminating on something so fundamentally boring as the finer points of modern architecture.

I decide on the northern building, remembering that it’s closer to the foreshore, and how he said wanted as clear a view of the ocean as possible if he were ever to sit on a balcony. So, I veer a little to the left and descend toward what I think is the twenty-first floor. Through the waves upon waves of water crashing over me and in my face, it’s almost impossible to accurately judge anything, but I’m pretty sure I’m at the correct level as I circle round to the eastern side.

And there it is, that lustrous, bronze helmet and its black and white plume sitting on the corner of a kitchen counter — I spy it through the windows and sliding door making up the way out to the balcony. The lights are on, and there’s movement inside. I think I should be right on time.

Well then, how about that? I may not be as naturally gifted in the art of navigation as an earth pony is, but I can do alright for myself. At least I’ll finally be out of this atrocious weather. Seriously, whose bright idea was it unload this much water at once? Are they testing the city’s drainage systems? What for? Why even have drains when the Bureau controls everything?

Questions I can’t answer, nor should I concern myself with. I’m here. That’s all that matters.

I straighten up and break mid-flight, flapping against the air in front of me to slow myself to a stop, then return to a more comfortably horizontal angle and turn for the balcony. A strong gust of wind threatens to blow me wide, but I grunt and flap harder, then finally pass over the glass railing and touch down on the timber deck, a foreleg still keeping a form grip on my saddlebags.

The rain continues to pour. Two wooden armchairs flank a wooden table, and a small, pineapple-looking palm tree of some description grows from a large pot in the corner; the standard decorations. He hasn’t had the chance to make this place his own, I’m guessing, not that he’s lived here long to begin with.

I wipe my eyes and brows as well as I can with a wing, then stroll forward, flicking water from my hooves with every step I take; a fruitless endeavour so long as I’m exposed, but cathartic. When I reach the door, I sit on my haunches and give it a careful knock.

Ironside and Able look to me from whatever conversation they were having in the lounge, connected to the kitchen — a similar layout as the old place in Seaford’s Riviera, but more expansive. Homely, if one allows it. They both begin to move toward me, but a taller, lankier, less armoured form jumps out from the kitchen, unlatches the entrance and slides it open. The upbeat sound of ‘Latin rock’ grows clearer; in the face of his so-called heritage, he’s admitted to not being a fan of the genre as a whole, except for the one song he brought with him on his phone.

Adouma by Santana. I know it well from when I switched the radio on during a lazy day of paperwork at the Academy — gave me the energy to finish everything early. It may not be my cup of tea either, but some things just stick with you, no matter which way or how hard you shake it.

“Fleetybee!” Philip cries, chuckling bemusedly as he beams another grin that just about makes my current condition bearable. “Sweet Jeebus, girl, you know you could’ve just walked here, right? You look like a drowned cat!”

I smile back, water dripping from every overhang imaginable, from my chin to my brows to the sleeves and legs of my white and silver tracksuit, my mane plastered down along my neck. “Would’ve taken too long,” I answer, pulling my goggles up and resting them on my forehead with my wingtips. “Besides, what’s a monsoon between friends?”

“A little more than you’d like to admit, I think.” He leans against the door with an outstretched arm and puts a hand on his hip. “As much as I appreciate you coming round, I don’t want you catching pneumonia on my account.”

“Nah.” I have him off good-naturedly. “I’m a pegasus — we live and breathe the weather.”

He snorts and cocks an eyebrow. “Next you’ll be saying you fart clouds and poop rainbows.”

“Oh, grow up. And let me in already, or must I drown some more for your entertainment?”

“Alright, alright.” He pats the doorframe and backs away, still smiling, then gestures for a doorway inside to his left. “There’s a spare towel on the rack in the en suite if you want to dry yourself off. I’m just finishing up the popcorn and snacks.”

“We’re finishing up the popcorn and snacks,” Brave counters from the kitchen, peering around him, and seemingly markedly less armoured than she usually is. “You’re the one who insisted popcorn is all you two need.”

“On the contrary, my dear,” he says, turning to her as I trot through, leaving wet hoofprints in the carpet. Better make this a quick trip. “I said no movie is complete without it, whether in the cinema or home theatre.”

“Six in one, half dozen in the other. This is a special occasion, sir, and I’m not letting you skimp out on her like some have on me.”

“Stop projecting, and stop playing matchmaker!” I call over my shoulder as I reach the bedroom, then head immediately for the en suite. “If Philip screws up, it should be his fault and his alone! We’re not your toys and this isn’t your dollhouse!”

“Well, the s’mores are already in the oven, ma’am, so I’m not leaving ‘til they’re done!”

I sigh heavily as my hooves go from carpet to tile, setting my saddlebags down between the sink and the bath. They mean well, I tell myself, and I truly appreciate their efforts despite it being nowhere in their job description, but I sometimes wish things were different. I don’t know how or in what way, though, so I don’t think on it too deeply for that reason. I should just be thankful for their support.

The en suite is a rather spacious place, the floor checked in squares of cream and vermillion, and the walls painted a complimentary blue-grey. Plenty of room to stretch, but I shouldn’t relax just yet. So, I step into an open shower, swing the glass door shut behind me, take off my goggles as my wings unfurl, then shake hard and fast, spraying water left and right like a dog after a swim. I’ve twisted a muscle a few times doing this, but I don’t want to keep anypony waiting and a towel wouldn’t do the job fast enough — best to get the bulk of the work out of the way first.

Next, I wring what I can from my mane, and then do the same with my tail, but more carefully. Deeming myself sufficiently dry — or not as wet as when I came in, more accurately — I step back out, grab the least used-looking towel from the rack, and rub it up and down my face, over my head, along my neck with vigour. And then I look at myself in the mirror.

Drowned cat my arse; I’m more like an excited pup overjoyed from their first trip to the beach, and eager to have their owner throw the ball into the ocean, just so I’d have an excuse to dive in again. My fur is matted in all the wrong ways that it almost looks intentional, and my hair is so lank and damp that I could very easily shape it into anything I see fit. A ponytail, for instance, tied up with a bow that compliments my eyes — I lack the length for something more flamboyant, and it wouldn’t be my style anyhow.

It’s a shame about the rain. I’d bought some vanilla-scented perfume just for him.

But perhaps it’s for the best. Maybe rocking up with pearly whites, minty breath and a box full of chocolate and roses would give him the wrong impression. We’re not here to woo each other, we’re here to… relax. Take our time. Ease into things. See if we can consciously be more than just friends, rather than…

Nope. Not thinking about it. Not today, when we’re so close to sorting everything out.

How I look is fine, and in the big picture, it’s neither here nor there; a minor blemish he’ll be happy to and easily overlook, as he has with so many incidents. I know him, he knows me. We’re petty in only the best of ways.

I nod at my reflection and turn for the saddlebags, wiping them down before I swing them over my back again, hanging the towel on the rack once more as I exit the bathroom. The music is still playing. If memory serves me correctly, it’s close to the end, and as I make a right for the joint lounge, kitchen and dining area, I behold a sight I never thought I’d see.

Brave carries the tray of s’mores from the open oven to the island counter, stepping in time with the beat on her hindlegs with a sway in her hips. And when she sets the tray down beside an assortment of snacks already laid out, she begins dancing solo — poised, precise, as elegant as any professional; this girl’s had training, and even half-dressed in armour, she’s making herself look damn fine. And judging by her low-hanging eyelids and tight-lipped smile, she knows how good she is, tail waving this way and that with the flow of her body, burnt orange mane dancing like silk.

Philip claps, stomps and whoops from the sidelines, taking a break from the action for the time being to watch on and encourage her display. He seems genuinely impressed more than anything, caught in the thrill of the moment to look elsewhere.

And then the song comes to a close, and with a last few sways of her hips, Brave strikes a pose and holds it, before finally resting on all fours, huffing with a smile, both at Philip and at me.

“My sister from another mister,” he applauds with gusto, “where the hell did you learn to move like that?”

She shrugs and chuckles. “Oh, you know, here, there and everywhere. Took it up as more of a hobby, really, for my own sake, though I’ve heard I have the tendency to turn heads.”

“I’ll say. I mean, I put Fleet to shame in terms of sheer flexibility, but I’m nowhere near that level of grace.”

“Grace,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes amicably as she retrieves her helmet and forelegs guards from the far side of the island counter. “Watch that tongue of yours, sir, or you might make our mutual friend here jealous. I’m trying to make this romance happen, not join it.”

Philip snorts, glancing back to me. “Yeah, right. Trust me, Brave, she ain’t the jealous type.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him, then peers at me with a smirk. “Is that a challenge, sir?”

“As much as I’d like to see you try, it’s probably for the best if we don’t.”

“Shame. Could’ve been fun. But alas, duty before pleasure.” She fastens the second brace and peers up at him with a sly look. “Those boundaries of yours are as strong as ever, aren’t they?”

He pauses, then squints at her and angles his head. “Am I being called out on something?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing at all, don’t you worry.” Brave chuckles again as she trots him by, going from white tile to khaki carpet. “Just having a little fun.”

“…Right…”

She comes to a halt in front of me, a shrewd, playful glint in her jade eyes — the kind that almost makes me think she’s sizing me up as a worthy opponent. “Buttered him up for you,” she says at a whisper’s pitch.

I blink at her with widening eyes and draw my head back.

“Go get him, tiger,” she adds, leaning in and gnashing her teeth with an audible clack right beside my ear, then turns away and strolls for companions. “We’ll be taking Able out to his farewell party now. You two play nice, you hear? I expect good news when we return.”

I gawk at her with a lingering shiver through my side, too absolutely gobsmacked by the sheer audacity of what she’d done to tell her off for playing matchmaker a second time, much less in a fashion completely out of left field. A Royal Guard batting her eyelashes at him while technically on duty in the hopes of… what? Making me seem more desirable by making herself seem…

I just… have no words.

“Sir,” Able heralds and salutes, snatching me from my thoughts, though not entirely. “It’s been an honour serving you.”

“It’s been a pleasure knowing you,” Philip replies, giving a small salute of his own.

I look at him absently, and then back to Able, and then feebly wave goodbye, spurred by the one part of my brain that can still focus on civil niceties. “Yeah, uh… ditto, guy. See you round.”

He turns his head slightly toward me, lowering his hoof, but his expression doesn’t change, nor does he comment. “It’d be nice seeing you again too, ma’am.”

“And if you leave before we return, please follow the law and refrain from flying,” Ironside implores, turning and heading for the door out of the apartment. “I understand there are no other ponies about in weather such as this, but just because there’s nopony around when a tree falls in the forest doesn’t mean it makes no sound.”

“Okay, okay, she gets it,” Brave interjects, ushering Able to follow. “The last thing she needs is you killing the romance dead with another one of your lectures.”

“Yes, romance, that’s exactly what you were stoking.”

“There’s nothing wrong in wanting to feel a little appreciated every now and then.”

“By your own VIP, and in front of the very mare who’s courting him.”

“I’ve never claimed to be perfect, Ironside, and neither have you.” She cuts in front and opens the door, cordially waving them through. “Now, shut up and let’s go.”

I can’t hear it, but I feel him deflate with a huff as he trots through, Able a few steps behind.

Brave nods to herself once they’ve cleared her field of vision, then swings around and backs out, pulling the way shut behind her, but not before giving us both a schemer’s grin. “Remember, you two: good news. And plenty of details.”

I blink once more, but can still hardly think of anything to say.

The door closes, and she and the other two guards are gone.

It’s just the two of us in the apartment now.

Me and him.

He and I.

Us.

The silence stretches as the rain continues pouring outside.

“So…” he begins, looking to me with an eyebrow quirked, “is it just me, or was that weird?”

“It’s not just you.” I meet his gaze as straight-faced as possible. “It was weird.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing you’d want to hear.”

He gently nods. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Yes, better that you do.” I amble over to the other side of the island counter and stand up, folding my forelegs on the ledge and resting against it, perusing the food on display and eager to change the topic. The less time I have to think about what just happened, the better. “So, what do we have here, and which of these haven’t been prepared by somepony else?”

“Hey, I can hold my own,” he protests, hands raised in his defence as he strolls forward from the kitchen bench and faces me from the opposite end. “Brave just happened to ask if we had any favourite foods between us, which reminded me of the stuff Spike used to make, and it just so happened that I had the same ingredients. She took matters into her own hooves.”

“So, none of this is your doing?”

“On the contrary, my dear.” He pats the white, polished granite surface and grins as he sweeps the same hand from left to right, gesturing to everything on offer. “Granted, most of it’s all store-bought, but fear not! When the time comes, I shall be as loyal and diligent as Spike is to Twilight. Starting us off, we have rosemary crackers and cheese — a staple snack from my younger days, which means you can’t criticise it ever.”

“Aw.” I pout, ears folding back. “But it’s so basic.”

“Hey, what did I just say?” He points at me and angles his head, brows climbing high in a half joking, half serious manner. “Rule number one of nostalgia, Fleet: don’t go dunking on someone else’s. I won’t tolerate kink-shaming under my roof.”

I snort and smirk. “You’ve been talking with Soarin a lot, haven’t you?”

“Your Wonderbolt buddy? Nah, not really. Only every other day.” He shakes his head and gives a long slow, exaggerated shrug. “But I have to admit, the guy’s got a way with words.”

“Yes,” I deadpan, “a bona fide poet. He never ceases to amaze.”

He hums amusedly, but soon returns to the food. “Anyway, we also have a fruit platter to share, which includes seedless grapes, watermelon, strawberries, cherries, mandarin pieces, apple, pear and orange slices, and assorted nuts.”

“Nuts aren’t fruit.”

He pauses, hand hovering limply above the dish, then leans forward and whispers, “They’re going through a phase at the moment, so let’s just hunker down and be supportive.”

I nod understandingly, though I’m not entirely sure what he’s getting at.

“Continuing on, we reach something that may appeal to the devil inside thee, madame: chocolate chip and coconut oatmeal biscuits. Secret Montero recipe, made with a healthy dash of tender loving care. Melts in your mouth — absolutely wonderful.”

My eyes widen and my ears perk up, looking to the biscuits at first and then to him. “For little old me?” I question in feigned disbelief, putting a hoof to my chest. “Philip, you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh no, don’t give me that.” He waggles his finger and angles his head again with a smirk. “What I should or shouldn’t do is neither here nor there. I’m the host, and you’re my guest, and I shall flatter you however I see fit. You know why?”

A small huff of an amused laugh escapes me as I prop my chin up on my forehooves, elbows on the countertop as I lean a little closer and smile, eyelids lowering playfully. “Enlighten me.”

His expression grows less cocky, his smirk shrinking into a smaller, but far warmer and more sincere smile of his own. “Because you’re worth it.”

A familiar ember ignites in the darkest depths of my barrel ignites; we’ve been through these motions before, struck the same chords, and I really shouldn’t expect anything more or less from him, but now I’m more… aware, for lack of a better word, the ember stays an ember. “You’ll have to do better than that, Philip,” I advise, gently shaking my head. “Romance is more than pretty words.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Says the girl who hasn’t gone on a date in how many years?”

“Don’t you dare,” I gasp, trying and failing to suppress a tickled grin. “That’s a low blow and you know it. And if you didn’t already have the food out, I might be so inclined to fly back home.”

“But you aren’t, and here the food is.” He stands up straight and folds his arms with another smirk, shrugging. “Take the bad with the good, Fleet. Yin and yang. And you may hide behind this mask of faux indignation, but you can’t take back what you said, and I can’t unhear it.”

“And what, pray tell, would that be?”

He pauses, I suppose for dramatic effect, and his smile grows almost imperceptibly wider. “Do you love me?” he asks in a soft, knowing, yet somehow authentically curious tone of voice.

My smile falters, stunned, and the ember inside catches light on the kindling in my chest. He knows the truth and so do I, and I’ve said it out loud for both of us to hear any number of times, but saying it would give him the satisfaction of winning whatever game we’ve started. And I only have myself to blame for this pickle. I purse my lips and stare at him through narrowed eyes, taking a deep breath through my nose at what an admittedly excellent play he’d made.

“I want to hear it again, Fleet.” His smile turns cheeky. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

I lower my gaze to the left, forelegs crossing on the counter as my wings shift in place and my ears flattening out to the sides, huffing once more. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“…Yes, I love you.” I frown up at him. “Happy?”

I expect him to rub it in. I expect him to beam an idiotic grin and gush and hang it over my head as his victor’s right dictates — woe to the vanquished and all that jazz. It’s not fair, but that’s how such things go.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his brows upturn and his lips slightly part, and he takes a deep breath of his own as he looks at me like I sometimes do at him: adoringly. “More than you could possibly imagine.”

It takes everything I have to not let my frown unravel, or the warmth in my chest to spread any further up the neck. Flames lick my ears, though, and tug at the corners of my mouth.

He blinks a few times, looking down as he gulps. “So… yeah, those are the biscuits, specially made by yours truly,” he says, rubbing his nose with a thumb as he returns to the food, mostly breaking out of whatever spell had caught him up. “And, uh… further along, we have a giant serving of popcorn, buttered and salted to perfection. In the fridge back there, there’s water, juice, soda, and milk if you want to make a cuppa for yourself.”

I blink as well, and my frown fades as I face him again, clearing my throat. “Sounds nice.”

“Indeed.” He looks over his shoulder, seemingly without knowing what to focus on, if anything. “Though I… suppose I could go one better and make us some milkshakes during the intermission, if I have the ingredients.”

My ears perk up somewhat, glad the subject has gone back onto a more manageable track. “What’re you thinking?”

His brows crease in thought, skewing his jaw as he returns to me. “You might have to settle for a plain old smoothie tonight, but if I manage to get everything together for next time — if there’s a next time — there’s this one formula I’ve been dying to replicate: vanilla, whipped cream, and caramelised popcorn, served warm.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “That’s different.”

“I know. But trust me, it’s magical. Had it once at this cosy little place on the backside of a pub at the end of a hiking trail I took with the family. I was eighteen at the time, I think. We’d just finished up, it was midday, and we had plenty of time to kill before the bus arrived, so we decided to do some exploring. Found the place, settled down on upper deck, and I remember ordering it because I like salty stuff, and it was so out of left field. I mean who puts popcorn in a milkshake?”

“But you liked it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Fleet, it was ambrosia.” He shuts his eyes and sinks into the memory for a moment. “The vanilla was top-notch and the cream was the perfect substance. Seriously, I’ve never had a drink as good as that before or since, and that includes this world’s apple juice. And I promise, if I brew it for you, I’m making sure it’s exactly like the one I had.”

I smirk. “You talk the talk, Philip, but can you walk the walk?”

“That, Fleetybee, remains to be seen.” He gives me a small, humble bow, then stands with his hands on his hips, smiling brightly. “So, what did you bring, if anything?”

I shrug. “Potato chips.”

“Salt and vinegar?”

“You know it.”

He reaches his hand over the counter and holds it up for me, smiling approvingly. “My girl.”

My smirk grows wider as I clap my hoof against it. “As for the movie, I brought a classic.”

“Oh?” he queries, taking the bowl of popcorn and the fruit platter with him around the table to the lounge proper. “Are we talking black and white, early days of cinema, or something far more epic, like pony Lord of the Rings?”

“I don’t know what Lord of the Rings is, but let’s go with epic,” I reply, reaching with my wings to snatch up the biscuits and cheese and crackers. I pause briefly when I notice the state of my feathers, however, twisted and battered from the storm. They need some pretty heavy maintenance, and I’ll want to do it before I head out again, whichever way I decide to go. But I turn back and stroll for the sofa, balancing everything on my plumage. “Remember what you said about rule one of nostalgia?”

“Yep?”

“This applies.”

“Ha!” He sets down his items on the coffee table and begins fiddling with the entertainment system, ignoring the entire purpose of having a remote. The DVD player and television initiate their start-up sequences. “Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” I set my food beside him, then take off my saddlebags and fling them into the corner of the L-shaped couch — a rich crimson in colour, and made from a smooth fabric I can’t be bothered labelling. It holds its shape well, though, and there are small pillows resting against the backing. I hop up and get myself comfortable, lying on my stomach on the part that just out — the peninsula, or whatever I’m supposed to call it. “Hey, do you mind if I preen?”

He looks over his shoulder from a kneeling position. “Sorry?”

I spread a wing and glance at it meaningfully.

His brows rise. “Oh, like you were doing at Twilight’s place, once upon a time.” He goes back to the TV and flicks through the settings, searching for the right input source. “Yeah, sure. Really don’t see why you need to ask permission, though.”

I gently nod as I lay the wing flat, giving it a visual examination first. “It’s a… matter of etiquette, I guess. You don’t normally do it unless your around people you trust.”

He stops his meddling, slowly straightening his back and turning in place to face me properly, an eyebrow raised curiously. “You make it sound vaguely intimate.”

“Well, it kinda-sorta is.” I lift the wing to inspect the underside. “It’s not easy to explain, but sometimes, you treat them like you would any of your legs, and others… they’re something else. More private, in a sense.”

“One of those taboos you don’t understand, but accept all the same, right?”

I pause, wondering if there’d been a double meaning in his words, but dismiss the thought and nibble through my secondaries, straightening a few, plucking a few more. The relief is instantaneous and immensely satisfying. “Sure,” I confirm, perhaps sounding too spaced out for my own good as I swing back to him with three feathers in my mouth, which I lay to rest before me. “Like I said, it’s complicated. Some of the more traditional pegasi save every primary they lose because it’s like losing a piece of their soul.”

“That important, huh?”

“Wings are what make us who we are.” I nibble through another section; nothing to pluck this time. “Me, personally? I do it because I just… take pride in them. They served me well, so I keep them around. Like mementos, but… a bit more meaningful.”

He stays quiet for a long moment.

Too long.

I look to him.

He watches me carefully, and with a faint, open-mouthed smile. But then he realises I’ve caught him staring and he shuts his mouth and glances left and right. “Sorry, I, uh…” he clears his throat, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be.”

He blinks, surprised.

So do I. It came out hastily, but calmly, as if I really meant it. Which, now that I think about it, I suppose I do. I just hadn’t expected it to be so… what? Fluid? Natural? Instinctive? Is there even a word to accurately describe it? Doesn’t matter; I said it, it’s out there, and the longer I take to explain myself, the more explaining I may need to do. “Don’t… be sorry,” I say quietly, lowering my gaze and ears as I feel a slow, shy smile sneak its way across my lips and a vague warmth develop in my cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“…Oh.” He blinks again. “Okay, so, uh… does this mean—"

“It means I trust you.”

He nods to himself, seemingly content, but soon gives me another curious look. “With what, exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My safety,” I answer nonchalantly, though in immediate retrospect, I kind of worry that makes me sound like an automaton, or at the very least, incredibly basic as a pony. Being reduced to explaining what body language means doesn’t feel entirely comfortable, in any case.

“Ah,” Philip remarks, nodding to himself in confirmation again. “So, it doesn’t… imply anything, does it, if you catch my drift?”

“Not directly, no.” The warmth threatens to grow into a blush and I cross a foreleg over the other, looking away once more. “But it’s a step in the right direction.”

He pauses, blinking for a third time with widening eyes and parting lips. “O-o-oh,” he mumbles, glancing off to nowhere in particular, unusually lost for words. “Well, uh… that’s definitely something, isn’t it?”

I angle my head, but decide not to comment; considering my history of not understanding what he means and finding out the hard way, asking for elaboration seems like a particularly unwise move. Best to change the subject before it gets the better of me. “Have you finished setting up?”

“Hmm?” He returns to me. “Oh, yes, it’s all good to go. Now we just need the movie and a little less light.”

“Movie’s in one of the saddlebags,” I say, pointing behind me with a wing, which I then bring closer and tug out another secondary, which prompts a sudden, fleeting, relieved moan from me. “Go ahead and rummage around, this’ll take a while.”

“Righto.” He stands up and strolls past me for the corner, where he does as I suggested, unbuckling the flaps to each pouch and pulling out what he finds. In the first, three packets of those salt and vinegar potato chips. In the second… “Fleet?”

I straighten out a few extra feathers and stop before moving onto the next section. “Yeah?”

“What’s a glasses case doing in your bags?”

My ears and neck stiffen and I snap to him, a chill running through me with no real reason for it; I know what he’s seen — what he’s holding — and I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m as much a pony as the next. I accepted the facts long ago, and all the other Bolts know about it too.

Even so, a part of me worries what he’ll think. An irrational fear, yes, considering how much shit we’ve put each other through and how much of it we’ve survived as well as can be expected, but the mind isn’t always a rational thing. Mine especially — that’s something I’ve discovered about myself since this whole adventure started.

“They’re prescription,” I reply, doing my best to keep my anxiety from showing, either in my voice or my features. “They keep the strain off my eyes for long stretches of time.”

“So, you were going to wear them anyway?”

I glance away and smile uneasily. “I was…”

“Then there wouldn’t be a problem if I asked to see them on you?”

The smile fades as I return to him. “Well, now that you’re making such a big deal out of it…”

“Don’t play coy,” he says in a sing-song voice, sauntering over and kneeling beside me, offering the case like a knight would a sword. “Would you do me the honour, milady?”

I remain quiet and still for a short while, flicking back and forth between the case and his hopeful gaze, which seems to grow more and more beseeching the longer I wait. And the longer he suffers, and openly admits to such, the more I smirk.

Until I decide enough is enough.

“Alright, give it here,” I groan light-heartedly, sitting up on my haunches and snatching the case from his grasp with a wing and flipping it open with the other. I take out the frames and rest them on my snout, and the would instantly becomes a little less fuzzy, not that there was much to begin with. As I make a final adjustment using the edge of my hoof, I share that wicked smirk with him again. “There. Does this please you? Are you pleased?”

His brows upturn and his mouth droops open, an upward curl in his lips as his hands hover between gesturing to me and covering the lower half of his face. I almost order him to pick which side of the aisle he want to walk before he beats me to the punch by folding his arms on the edge of the couch, blowing a small sigh of satisfaction as he leans slightly closer. “My dearest Fleetfoot,” he hums, his nose within reach of mine, “no milkshake in the world could ever be as sweet as you.”

My teeth clench as I try and fail to keep my smirk from turning into a genuine grin, and I feel the shameful burning in my chest, begging me to close the distance and steal a kiss from him. It would be easy, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. But my wings tuck in tight as I force my urges down, lifting a hoof instead. “And you…” I say, gently tapping him on the nose, “you’re still as ugly as the day I met you.”

His smile widens oh so delectably, and I hardly notice a hand travelling from the sofa up to the back of my head before it’s already firmly scratching behind my ear.

I lean into it automatically as a moan escapes me, snapping my eyes shut as the sudden, oddly comforting feeling sends a soft wave of warmth down my neck.

“Care to rephrase that?”

I’m sorely tempted, but I have my standards, and as much as my body yearns for more of this affection, a wrap a hoof around his forearm and gently push it away, meeting his adoring gaze with half-closed eyes. “Movie, Philip.”

He huffs a laugh, but bows his head and stands up, returning to the bags.

I tidy up my mane, neatening it as much as I can into its original shape, shuffling my wings and ruffling my feathers to dispel whatever tension may or may not have gathered in them. My next breath is heavy — sorry I’d denied myself something that was actually quite pleasant — and I set aside the glasses case as I slide back down to my stomach and resume my preening.

“Second Wind, Volume One,” Philip comments, strolling over to the DVD player once more. “A classic, you say. Part of a series, I take it?”

“A trilogy,” I answer, straightening a loose primary. It might be coming out soon. “Trust me, it’s good. I’ll bring the next one whenever we do this again.”

“Bursting onto the scene with all guns blazing, and wielding the immunity card of nostalgia.” He inserts the disk into the tray and leaves the case on the cabinet, then returns to me with another of his smiles, now appraising as well as affectionate. “Whatever have I gotten myself into?”

“Only the biggest mistake of your life.”

He gently nods, sitting on the section of couch just behind me, pulling the coffee table closer. “That may be, Fleetybee,” he replies in a low tone, picking up the remote in one hand as he watches the other lay itself over and hold a rear hoof, looking at me earnestly, his smile now smaller, more precious. “But if that’s the case… then I’m glad I’m making it with you.”

I bring my hindlegs in, as well as my wings, and before he can ask what the matter is or protest, I turn about and press into him with a hug, closing my eyes and nuzzling my head under his chin. I beam another grin and sigh contentedly. Preening can wait. “I don’t deserve you.”

He doesn’t respond, but he breathes deeply, and his free hand slowly comes to rest upon my back, gently pulling me closer as he angles his head takes a deep, slow whiff of my mane. The warmth of his outward breath travels down my neck and through my body to the core. “Right back at you, girl,” he whispers, almost as if he didn’t mean to, but was thinking aloud. “Right back at you.”

I squeeze tighter, but eventually let go and turn around, leaning back, anchoring myself between him and the backrest, facing the screen. I smile up at him, the back of my head perched on his shoulder.

He smiles in kind, but more… admiringly.

We share a moment.

It’s a special moment.

And then we watch the movie.

Next Chapter: 28 | A Display of Passion Estimated time remaining: 7 Hours, 27 Minutes